


Falcon

by AnonBeMe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Girl next door, Non-Explicit Sex, Teenage Crush, Teenagers, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-21 17:51:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11949507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonBeMe/pseuds/AnonBeMe
Summary: Based on the following prompt:Clarke is fifteen and her best friend, Lexa, is four years older. Clarke has a crush on her, but Lexa rejects her because of her age. Lexa then leaves for law school but returns seven years later. She falls for Clarke who is now a succesful artist (and Lexa now has to woo her)... But is she too late?ORThe age gap AU.





	1. ONE.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first attempt at writing clexa as teenagers. Should be fun :)
> 
> This story happened because I was prompted on Tumblr <3  
> (And whoever prompted me: Thank you! I've really enjoyed writing this one... I hope you will enjoy it as well).
> 
> Curious? [Read prompt here](https://anonbemetoo.tumblr.com/post/163957496547/prompt-ask-lexa-is-a-couple-years-older-than) \- I tweaked the wooing part a little bit to make it more realistic...
> 
> Let me know what you think.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# ONE.

 

 

It’s late afternoon, the kind that is lazy and unimportant. The summer heat leaves pearls of sweat on bare skin, and throats are forever dry, thirsty. 

School is out and summer is _so, so_ hot. So absurdly hot, that even the simple task of breathing seems difficult. It's on days like today that Clarke wishes her parents had bought a house with a pool. She could totally do with a pool right now. 

Clarke is home alone – her parents are at some business dinner of sorts – enjoying the peace as she slenders through the empty house, the cold kitchen tiles smooth against the soles of her bare feet. She picks a bottle of water from the fridge, unscrews the cap and chugs half of it as if her life depended on it. Then she walks out into the backyard, the half-empty bottle hanging loosely from her hand. The aggressive sun attacks her the second she steps onto the terrace, the wooden boards uncomfortably warm against her feet. She takes a seat, her ass on one chair, her feet on another. Then she chugs the rest of the water. 

This is nice, the sun and the gentle breeze caressing her heated skin. Summer is nice. No school is _niiice_. The only problem is that time moves _so, so_ slow. Like, agonizingly slow. Like a turtle with a broken leg, or something. Clarke smiles at the image of a turtle on crutches. She should draw that sometime. 

Squinting against the sun, Clarke wishes she’d brought her shades with her outside. She inhales slowly, visualizing whatever her body in a calm state may look like – a relaxed smile and muscles like butter and all – trying to vaporize the restlessness in her body, but no, it doesn’t work. It never does. She has no plans for the summer, but she blatantly refuses to call up a classmate; they're all immature, and frankly, Clarke would rather stay home alone, bored half to death, than go to the mall, or wherever, with these people she doesn't even consider friends. 

The familiar thud of a book placed onto a garden table and a likewise familiar sigh reach Clarke's ears. With a warm smile, her restlessness long forgotten, Clarke goes to pick up the inflatable beach ball lying in the grass in front of the terrace. Juggling the ball between hands, Clarke walks towards the hedge that separates her backyard from her neighbor’s. 

“Lexa, are you there?” Clarke calls.

“Yeah,” Lexa calls back, a hesitant response that most of all sounds like a gray, rainy day. Clarke can literally hear Lexa frown through the hedge. 

“Bad day?”

“Kind of.”

The crestfallen tone reaches Clarke’s heart. She spins the ball caught between two index fingers, contemplating how to make her best friend happy again. It’s obviously not a beach ball battle over the hedge kind of situation, this one. Nor is it a let's sit down and have a deep conversation about it thing. It never is with Lexa; she overthinks a lot, hates herself a lot – for no reason, or course, if you ask Clarke – and doesn't like to talk about it. There's one thing that always works, though, even if it's just for a little while. 

“Wanna come over and watch a Disney movie with me?”

“I'm too old for Disney movies, Clarke,” Lexa deadpans. 

“You're _never_ too old for Disney, Lexa,” Clarke says, “once a child, always a child.”

“Oh, the indisputable logic of Clarke Griffin,” Lexa says, and Clarke thinks she can hear Lexa's subtle half-smile in her voice.

“Come on, I’ll let you pick the movie,” Clarke offers, already knowing which movie she’ll pick.

“I’m too old,” Lexa faux whines, smiling as she walks towards the hedge. The thick, bushy greenness is too tall for Clarke to be able to see Lexa, but she can tell she’s right there on the other side. Even if she couldn't hear feet scuffling through grass, she'd know. It’s like a sixth sense; Clarke calls it The Lexa Radar and Lexa shakes her head incredulously every time Clarke mentions it. 

“We had this discussion already. _I’m_ the old one,” Clarke grins.

“Yes, I remember. You’re the eighty-year-old and I’m the poor soul doomed to be a teenager for all eternity.”

“Exactly,” Clarke insists, “now, come over. I’m home alone, we’ll order pizza and pretend we’re kids.” Clarke waits for Lexa to say yes, but there’s hesitation, so Clarke continues. “I’ll call your parents and assure them I’ll have you home before curfew, if that’s what you worry about.”

Lexa chuckles from the other side of the hedge. “No need for that. I’ll see you in ten, Clarke.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Lexa says, obviously grinning. “Oh, and Clarke?” Lexa calls, her voice farther away this time.

“Lion King?”

“...yes,” Lexa says, her voice small, hesitant, slightly ashamed.

“Hakuna Matata!” Clarke calls after her, a taunting excitement carrying her words, her laughter almost drowning out the embarrassed _“shut up, Clarke”_ from the other side. Almost. Clarke's Lexa Radar can detect Lexa's voice from any soundscape, no matter how jumbled it is. 

Clarke's laughter dies out only to be ignited again when a tall, slender figure lets herself into the Griffin household, hands casually stuffed into the pockets of her black board shorts. Lexa eyes Clarke accusingly as she says, “do not mock Lion King, Clarke. It's a masterpiece. A classic, even.”

“Oh, I'm not mocking Lion King, Lexa. I'm mocking you,” Clarke says, innocence coloring her face, taunt obvious in her voice. 

At that, Lexa smiles and shakes her head. “Of course you are. Or you wouldn't be Clarke Griffin,” she says. She kicks off her flip flops and walks past Clarke and into the living room. 

Still in the hallway, Clarke’s eyes fall to her feet, a smile of her own tugging at the corners of her lips. She brushes blond strands of hair behind one ear before joining Lexa. 

In the living room, Clarke finds Lexa squatting in front of the TV unit in the process of starting up the DVD. Lexa's position allows for Clarke to see the naked skin of Lexa's lower back, and it makes Clarke nervous. Averting her gaze, Clarke squeezes her eyes shut for two seconds – long enough to compose herself – before throwing herself onto the big, comfy couch with too many cushions. 

“Ready?” Lexa asks. 

“Always,” Clarke responds.

Lexa takes a seat next to Clarke, one leg bent by the knee, the ankle trapped under a thigh. “Hakuna Matata,” Lexa whispers like an excited child as she presses play. 

“Such a child,” Clarke deadpans, a hint of a smirk. In the corner of her eye, she catches Lexa grinning. A happy Lexa is the best thing Clarke knows. And when Clarke is the cause it's even better, because Lexa makes Clarke happy too. 

They've seen this movie a million times. Clarke doesn't need to look at the TV to follow the narrative. Thus, she finds that her eyes slide to watch Lexa's profile every now and then. It's to make sure Lexa is still smiling, Clarke tells herself. It's best friend duty. 

Lexa does in fact stay smiling, but only as long as the movie runs. By the time the credits roll across the screen, Lexa has melted into the cushions, arms crossed over her chest, her head leaning against Clarke’s shoulder, a thoughtful crinkle between her eyes and a sad, pouty lower lip. 

Clarke always found Lexa's pouty lower lip adorable. It reminds Clarke that the four years between them are perfectly irrelevant. It always has been. Clarke feels old and Lexa wishes she wasn't. Together they’re a perfect match.

“Hey,” Clarke murmurs, and vulnerable, green eyes snap back into focus, now looking at Clarke. “Wanna talk about it?”

Lexa seems to consider it, at least. In the end, she gives a shake of the head and a sulky “no” – exactly what Clarke expected. 

“Okay,” Clarke says, “let me go order our pizza, and then you can tell me anyways.”

The sulking Lexa responds with silence and more sulking, and when Clarke returns with a cheerful “pizza ETA twenty-five minutes” and a sketchbook and pencil in her hands, Lexa’s lower lip pouts a little bit more. 

Clarke takes her seat and Lexa's head finds its resting spot on Clarke's shoulder again. Lexa is nowhere near ready to open up yet, so Clarke waits patiently as she touches the pencil to paper. 

Curious eyes follow Clarke's pencil as it leaves curvy lines and strokes in its wake. 

“Is that a turtle?” Lexa asks, leaning in closer.

“Mhm,” Clarke hums, deciding she really likes the soft scent of Lexa's shampoo – a little flowery, not too much. It reminds her of summer, or maybe summer reminds her of Lexa. Maybe both. 

More strokes, a little shading here and there. Still no spilling of beans from Lexa. 

“Is that… crutches?” Lexa asks incredulously. 

“Bingo,” Clarke grins. 

“A turtle with crutches?” Lexa sounds wonderfully perplexed by the oddity of Clarke's sketch. 

“Time moving painfully slow,” Clarke says reverently, the ghost of a dreamy sigh. 

“Clever,” Lexa says, a tiny smile finally finding its way to her lips. 

“Mhm,” Clarke hums. 

The air is thick with Lexa's unspoken thoughts, and Clarke wishes she knew a better way to make her speak than simply waiting. 

“How would you draw time moving painfully fast?” Lexa asks. 

Clarke looks at her, then, but Lexa refuses to meet her eyes. “A falcon flying so fast it catches fire, maybe?” Clarke says, already tracing the first strokes of a falcon soaring through the air. Clarke already knows she'd color the eyes a piercing green. 

“I'm leaving in three weeks,” Lexa says, frowning. 

“I know. You suck,” Clarke says, a slight teasing – an attempt to brighten the mood. 

The truth is, Clarke's stomach drops every time she's reminded of it. Lexa moving far away across the country is a terrible, terrible thing because she's Clarke's best friend and Clarke needs her to stay sane in this town. _This_ is the actual problem: Lexa leaves to study law at one of the finest schools this country has, and Clarke is stuck here, still four years to go with a mom who wants her to become a doctor when all Clarke wants to do is draw and make beautiful art. And hang out with Lexa. 

“Clarke,” Lexa whines. 

“I'm proud of you,” Clarke says, because it's the only truth that doesn't hurt to speak. 

“I’m not ready to grow up,” Lexa then says. The sigh that follows, heavy and heartbroken, nearly pulls the tears from Clarke's eyes. 

“Wait till I turn nineteen and we can grow old together,” Clarke tries. 

“That would be nice,” Lexa says, her head bobbing slowly, distracted by the turmoil of thoughts in her mind. 

They sit there, lost in their own bubble of frozen time, Lexa melting into Clarke's side, and Clarke drawing their animals with broken limbs and feathers on fire. If it wasn't for the doorbell announcing the arrival of the pizza delivery guy, they'd most likely be sitting like that all night. 

A pizza and another Disney movie later, leaves them fast asleep, innocently wrapped around each other like so many times before. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke dreams about Lexa one night, about being held by warm arms and kissed by soft lips. When Clarke wakes up she feels warm and soft and _happy_ , and her heart does somersaults when images of kissing Lexa comes back to her. It’s a confusing thing. Lexa is her _friend_ , meaning Lexa isn't one she's supposed to want to kiss. 

Two days later, there's that party by the lake Clarke doesn't want to go to, but she goes anyways, hoping it'll take her inappropriate mind off of things. 

It’s what she expects. Clarke and her classmates are the only minors allowed to be there, but only because Octavia's brother, Bellamy, is one of the minds behind it, and Octavia threatened to tell their mom if she couldn't come. When Clarke arrives, both Octavia and Raven are welcoming her, mouth agape and their eyes nearly falling out of their heads. Clarke Griffin does not party, that's why. Clarke Griffin is uptight and _too good_ to attend water balloon fights and anything that might get her in trouble. 

That's not how it is, though. Clarke just doesn't consider it fun. And when people tell her she's a boring old granny for not partaking in these _fun activities_ , Clarke shrugs and walks away. At least Lexa likes her _granny_ tendencies, and Lexa is more important than anyone else combined. 

When Raven and Octavia greet her with a hug that's very affectionate and a little uncomfortable, Clarke ignores that they're already tipsy and yelling a bit too loudly, because they make her feel wanted, and for a while she forgets about Lexa. 

They are a group of ten from her class, and Clarke loses track of who’s there only after ten minutes as people keep running off, energized by cheap, lukewarm beer in plastic cups. Clarke has kindly turned down several of Finn's offers to get her one of those cups already, and unkindly told him to leave her alone once or twice after that. When Finn’s attention span proves to be less than that of a goldfish, Clarke decides she needs a break, to clear her head, so she takes a walk by the shore finding a seat on a large rock. 

From there she throws tiny pebbles into the water enjoying how it sets off minuscule rings that ripple through the surface and so, so gently disturb the reflection of a late summer's evening sky. Watercolors, Clarke thinks. Or maybe an oil painting. She should come back here and paint this view someday. The orange hues are tenfold more beautiful when doubled by the mirror of this lake. Clarke wonders how much different it would look on a windy day; she should come back here on a windy day to find out. It could be… nice. 

“Clarke?” 

Clarke snaps her head to look over her shoulder towards the voice she recognizes better than her own. She's met with a rare sight, one that pleases her artist’s eye. Lexa stands before her, jeans low on her hips, a see-through green button-up with a clear idea of a black strap top underneath. Lexa's hair is freed from its usual spot in a messy ponytail and instead hangs freely around her shoulders looking all soft and wavy; Clarke wants to run her fingers through it, but it's an inappropriate thought, so she takes to slide her hands under her own thighs instead, trying to control their impulses that way. The thing that has Clarke's heart beating against time is Lexa's eyes. She rarely uses make-up, but tonight her eyes are framed by a strong eyeliner making the green in her eyes stand out. It feels like a blow to the gut, and Clarke has to swallow the dryness in her throat before she speaks. 

“Oh, hi Lexa, I didn't know you were going to be here.” Clarke says, wondering if Lexa senses how nervous she suddenly is. 

“It's the last party before I leave. Thought I'd get a head start on this grown-up thing and come say goodbye to everyone, properly,” Lexa says, a wistful smile on her lips. “Can I join you?” Lexa gestures towards the rock beneath Clarke with a hand. 

“Sure,” Clarke shifts to make room for Lexa who then takes a seat, shoulder pressed against shoulder. 

“So, a lake party, Clarke? Are you finally finding that rebellious teenager of yours?”

“Thought I'd give it a go, yeah,” Clarke says, only half joking. 

“I'll give you a hint. The rebellion takes place over there.” Lexa points to the crowd of loud, obnoxious teenagers farther down the lake shore. 

“Thanks,” Clarke plays along, suddenly feeling the need to look away. Away meaning not at Lexa and her pretty smile and beautiful eyes and soft, wavy hair. 

Clarke frowns. 

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks, giving Clarke a gentle push, shoulder to shoulder, when Clarke doesn't respond. 

“Mhm,” Clarke hums. It tastes like a lie, and the look Lexa gives her tells her that Lexa doesn’t believe it either.

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, throwing an arm around her best friend’s shoulder. “You can talk to me.”

“I’m okay. I just… I don’t want this summer to end,” Clarke says, because it’s the closest to the truth she can get without jeopardizing their friendship.

A huff of air escapes Lexa’s lungs. “Yeah,” she whispers. 

They sit there, lost in one of their bubbles of frozen time. They’re watching the sunset, their asses half numb from the rough surface of the rock they sit on. If it wasn’t for the voice calling out Lexa’s name, they’d probably be sitting there all night. 

When Lexa slides off the rock, Clarke is both disappointed and relieved at the same time. She wants to spend as much time as possible with her friend before she leaves, but the physical havoc Lexa’s presence causes is too much for Clarke to handle. Clarke wishes she knew how to make it go away. 

“I gotta get back to the party,” Lexa says. “If you need a ride home, come get me, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Fine,” Lexa grins.

“Fine,” Clarke smiles back, but it doesn't reach her eyes. 

Lexa lingers for another five seconds before she walks back to her friends, and Clarke watches her back as she walks away. 

No longer able to keep her cool, Clarke gasps, drawing in shaky air to fill her burning lungs. Clarke must be a masochist, because she can't for the love of anything good pull her eyes away; not even when a dark haired girl throws her arms around Lexa's shoulders pulling her into a kiss. It sucks the air out of Clarke's lungs, and Clarke feels like she’s about to throw up. She looks away, then, and the orange colored lake is a blurry mess through the tears she doesn’t even feel.

Clarke sits there, alone in her burst bubble, until she has regained control of her body. She makes sure to _not_ look towards Lexa on her way back to Raven and Octavia. When Finn offers her a plastic cup full of bad choices, she takes it. She allows him to refill her cup a couple of times, and then she allows him to kiss her. 

Finn tastes of bad choices, too, but Clarke is distracted, and it hurts less this way, so she doesn't stop him. 

Clarke doesn’t ask Lexa for a ride home. It’s a fifteen minute walk, and Finn is enough of a gentleman to make sure she arrives home safely. She allows him to kiss her outside her house again, but this time it's not enough to distract her from thinking about the girl next door. 

Finn wishes her goodnight with a charming smile, but all Clarke sees is the dark haired girl kissing Lexa. When Finn asks her, “are you alright, you don't look so good,” Clarke tells him she's fine, she must've drunk one cup too many. She'll be fine after sleep. 

It tastes like another lie. 

Clarke cries herself to sleep that night, ignoring the text message from Lexa asking if she needs a ride home.


	2. TWO.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow - I'm a little shocked to see so many readers/kudos for this fic.  
> I don't know what to say, except thank you! I really appreciate it <3
> 
> Here's part two .
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# TWO.

 

 

The morning sun pierces through the blinds like arrows with the tip covered with poison, and Clarke groans, burying her face in her pillow. The obtrusive light is a persistent foe, and she groans once more before sandwiching her head between the mattress and the pillow.

It’s better. 

Less light, but also less air. 

You win some, you lose some. 

It’ll have to do because Clarke is incapable of moving anymore. Everything _hurts_ ; head, stomach, and somewhere in the middle of this stupid hangover, her heart, too.

Clarke needs to pee, but that’s one reason against the millions of reasons as to why she should just stay in bed today. 

Or, well, forever. 

Someone knocks on her door, and while she wants to be left alone, she doesn’t have the energy to tell them to stay out – it's not like they're going to listen anyways. The door slides open and her mom’s voice fills the room.

“Lexa is here to see you.”

“Not now,” Clarke mumbles.

Footsteps approach her bed, and Clarke hears the faint thud of something being placed on her bedside table. 

“Water and painkillers,” her mom says. “Take them. I’ll tell Lexa to come back later. And Clarke, we’re gonna have to talk about this. If you’re going to a party where alcohol is involved your dad and I–“

“–Fine, mom! Just… Not now,” Clarke interrupts her. The mentioning of Lexa makes everything worse. Clarke realizes it’s not really the hangover that makes her sick, it’s the reminder that she wants to kiss Lexa, and she’s not supposed to.

Clarke’s mom sighs. “Alright,” she says, then leaves the room. 

This is another addition to the pile of reasons why Clarke disappoints her mom, and Clarke can’t deal with that right now either. Under the pillow that so conveniently blocks out sunlight, Clarke squeezes her eyes shut. Everything is a mess, and Clarke doesn’t know how to fix it.

When Clarke eventually does get up, she dutifully finds her parents in the kitchen enjoying a lunch together on their day off.

“It won’t happen again,” Clarke says, taking a seat next to her dad.

“What won’t happen again?” Her dad’s voice is so forcefully innocent that Clarke almost rolls her eye at him. Still, she plays his game. 

“I won't drink at a party without letting you know where I am ever again,” Clarke elaborates. 

“Good. Hungover?” He says. 

“I thought it would be worse,” Clarke admits, resting her face in her hands, eyes drowsy, her heart still hurting. “I didn't actually drink that much,” Clarke wonders out loud, a lazy yawn escaping her lips. “I just had a bad day.”

“Who was the boy?” Her mom asks. 

“Oh god,” Clarke groans, realizing her mom saw them kissing. However chaste it may have been, Clarke is _so, so_ ashamed. “That was Finn. That won't happen again either.” Clarke has every intention of keeping those words because one, she doesn't really like him that way, and two, he doesn't deserve what Clarke did to him yesterday, using him as a distraction. 

There's an uncomfortable silence in the kitchen, and Clarke knows that if she were to look up, she'd find her mom and dad having an unspoken discussion across the kitchen island about her punishment. 

“What's the verdict,” Clarke says. Clarke doesn't really care. Nothing is worse than having a crush on her best friend. 

“We're letting you go with a warning,” her dad says. 

“What?” A wide-eyed Clarke lifts her head, maybe a little too fast. The headrush makes her wince. 

“ _This_ time,” her mom points out. “You've been responsible so far, it's your chance to prove you still are.”

“I understand,” Clarke says. “Thank you.” 

Slowly, feeling slightly uncoordinated, Clarke rises from her seat. She almost wishes she'd have been grounded for a week. It would’ve been a perfectly good excuse to not have to face Lexa for a while. Except, that's not what Clarke wants. Clarke wants to spend every waking moment with her best friend before she leaves for law school, and she wants to not have a crush on her. 

“I'm gonna go for a walk,” Clarke announces. She scarcely registers her mom saying something about Lexa as she leaves the kitchen, something she chooses to ignore. 

With her sketchbook in hand, Clarke scurries out the front door and down the street crossing her fingers that Lexa by chance didn't see her leave the house. Clarke needs to think. To get her mind straight. To properly go through what happened yesterday and, preferably, come to the conclusion that this crush can disappear as fast as it arose. It has to. Clarke’s feet carry her back to the scene of the crime: the lake. She finds the same rock she sat on and gets as comfortable as it allows, sketchbook in her lap, her pencil already drawing doodles on repeat. 

For the first time this summer, time flies by like a falcon catching fire. Evening sky colors are already scheming the inevitable sunset as Clarke looks at her sketches. Turtles and falcons and… Lexas. Lots of Lexas. She has come to no conclusion except that going to that party was a waste of time, and not spending her afternoon with Lexa is a waste of time, too. As for her crush? It can't be reversed. Not now, at least. Clarke will have to ignore it for another two weeks, and when Lexa is gone, the crush will die out. Easy peasy, Clarke can do that. If she wants to hang out with Lexa, that's what has to happen. 

Finn is easy. Clarke will tell him he's a nice guy, a good friend, but not more than that. And then Clarke will have to make sure that she doesn't drink while being sad again, and certainly not while Finn is there. Yup, Finn is easy. 

Alright. As of this moment, Clarke's crush on Lexa no longer exists. There. Done. Clarke takes a deep breath that's a lot more steady than the one she took last night in this very spot watching Lexa walk away. 

Today is better. 

“Clarke?” 

Clarke steels herself, reminding herself of the new no-crush policy, before turning around towards the voice she recognizes better than her own. When Clarke meets those green eyes – not framed by eyeliner this time, but still _so, so_ beautiful – Clarke's heart flutters, and she knows her body didn't get the no-crush memo.

“Hey,” Clarke says, internally flinching by the forced happy voice. 

“Your mom said you went for a walk. I figured you'd go here. Can I sit?”

“Uhm, sure.” Clarke shifts to make room for Lexa. When their shoulders touch, Clarke's head drops forward, her eyes shut, in an involuntary act of attempting to control what's happening to her body. She wants to yell at her stupid heart, and her stupid stomach, and whatever else is on rampage right now. 

“I can't bare seeing you like this,” Lexa whispers, sounding as heartbroken as Clarke feels.

“I'm okay,” Clarke says, shaking her head. It hurts lying to Lexa. 

“No, you're not. You're–Clarke, hey, come here, it's okay.”

Lexa's arms wrap around Clarke, and Clarke hears herself sob into Lexa's shirt. There are hurricanes and tornados and snow storms and vulcano eruptions and tsunamis all climaxing in Clarke's body. Clarke isn't sure what's going on except she's hyperventilating, her chest heaving desperately against Lexa's calmness. 

“It's okay,” Lexa hushes, her hands rubbing up and down Clarke's spine. 

In Lexa's arms, Clarke calms down fast. Clarke feels home, she always has, and she thinks maybe she always had a crush on Lexa, that she just never realized it until now. It sets off another round of sobbing, Lexa tightening her hold around Clarke. 

“What's going on?” Lexa murmurs. “Clarke, please talk to me.”

“I don't want to lose you,” Clarke says, because it's the only truth Clarke dares to speak out loud. 

“Is that what this is about? You won't lose me, Clarke. I promise. We'll skype, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good,” Lexa says, but Clarke doesn't say it back. “Clarke,” Lexa pleads, “tell me what to do.”

But Clarke doesn't have an answer. Instead she presses her forehead against Lexa's collarbone until Lexa forces Clarke to look at her, hands cupping her cheeks. 

For a heartbeat or two, no one breathes. Then, a fleeting moment in time where Lexa's eyes slide to Clarke's lips. It happens so fast that Clarke almost doesn't notice. 

Almost. 

The way Lexa's eyes widen, like a deer caught in the headlights, tells Clarke it wasn't supposed to happen. 

Clarke feels naked and raw, she sees herself mirrored in Lexa. She thinks maybe she recognizes the struggle. She thinks maybe Lexa is afraid of losing her best friend, too. 

Lexa's lips mimic beginnings of unspoken words, and Clarke wants _so badly_ to know what they are that she chases them until her lips meet Lexa's. 

For a heartbeat or two, Lexa kisses her back, and Clarke revels in the softness and how _right_ it feels. Her ribcage is too small, her body is weightless, and Clarke doesn't care because Lexa is kissing her back. 

Until she isn't. 

A suddenly tense Lexa pushes against Clarke’s shoulders. “I… We can't do this,” Lexa says in a brittle voice. 

Words are failing Clarke. A second ago Lexa was kissing her back and it was amazing. Clarke felt _elevated_ , like she could conquer the entire universe. And now Lexa is looking at her with an ache that squeezes around Clarke's lungs and pierces through her heart, and Clarke fights with everything she has to hold her tears at bay. 

Lexa shakes her head, her gaze dropping along with her hands, and Clarke is so, so terrified of what that means. 

“Lexa,” Clarke pleads, finally finding her voice however fragile it may be. 

“We can't,” Lexa repeats, shaking her head once more. 

“Why not?”

“I'll be gone in two weeks,” Lexa says, but Clarke can hear the lie clearer than any truth Lexa ever spoke. 

The truth Clarke does here is really about Clarke. It's about Clarke not being the dark haired girl hanging around her neck last night. Lexa doesn't _want_ Clarke, because Clarke is not good enough, not tall enough, not pretty enough. 

The walls are building up around Clarke. Tall, impenetrable titanium walls rising faster than the speed of a falcon. Clarke can't breathe, so she slides off the rock having to steady herself as her feet touches the ground. 

“Clarke,” Lexa calls, but it ricochets off the monstrosity of a shield now protecting Clarke. 

Clarke doesn't remember how she got home. She doesn't recall the gravel dirt paths leading from the lake up to the road, or the sidewalks leading her back to her house. Clarke barely registers her dad asking her what's wrong, and she just might recall having told him to leave her alone. 

Back in her room, Clarke throws herself onto her bed, burying herself under sheets and pillows, and she cries until there are no more tears, until she can't tell if the pain in her chest is heartache or exhausted lungs.

There's a faint idea of disappointment that she can't even turn to her best friend for consolation anymore. 

Instead she turns to sleep, too exhausted for anything else. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke doesn't come down for dinner – hunger is a trifling matter compared to the bleeding hole in her heart – she doesn't even leave her room, and when her parents ask her what's wrong she mumbles a disheartened “nothing” as she turns her back on them and pulls the sheets up higher. 

It's dark in Clarke's room when her dad brings her a sandwich, the odor of grilled cheese and ham – Clarke's favorite – reaches her nose through the sheets, but even then Clarke doesn't care. He takes a seat on the edge of her bed and rests his large, gentle hand on her back. Clarke doesn't move. 

“It'll feel better to talk about it,” he encourages. 

Clarke doesn't respond. 

“Lexa came by to check on you again,” he then says, and based on the way his hand begins rubbing circles on her back, Clarke assumes he knows this is about Lexa. 

“Tell her I'm fine,” Clarke says, the muffled heat from her breath is moist and suffocating inside her fort of pillows. 

“Why don't you tell her yourself?”

“Dad,” Clarke pleads. 

There's a silence in which Clarke knows her dad is contemplating his next move. The more he tries the more stubborn Clarke becomes, and really, she just wants to be left alone. 

“Eat something,” he says, “it'll make you feel better.” 

When the thud of a door closing reaches Clarke, she begins to cry again – the painful kind, the one where already red, swollen eyes start stinging before the first tear even falls. 

 

°*°

 

The sandwich is cold when Clarke wakes up. It still smells good and Clarke's stomach growls, so she gives in. It leaves her with a dry throat, and the second she thinks about water, her bladder suddenly shrinks to a painfully small, painfully full size.

Groggy and dizzy, Clarke goes to the bathroom. The house is dark and silent, except for the fridge buzzing away from some corner of the house. In the bathroom, she relieves herself, and because the inside of her mouth tastes and feels like death, she brushes her teeth. She picks up a bottle of water from the fridge and chugs half of it on the way to her room wincing when the cold water mingles with the minty freshness in her mouth.

On the bedside table, her phone flashes a steady rhythm demanding her attention. She knows what she'll find, things she doesn’t want to see, but she checks it anyway. Unread text messages from Lexa apologizing for freaking out and begging Clarke for a chance to explain herself. There's even an _I love you_ in there, but Clarke knows it's the friend kind, and for the first time in their history, that's no longer enough for Clarke. 

Clarke ignores them, the empty words, flipping her phone upside down before going back to sleep. 

 

°*°

 

The first time Clarke decides to leave her room to hang out in her backyard, Lexa calls her name through the hedge. Clarke then decides her room is a better place to stay. 

 

°*°

 

One evening, Clarke receives an _I miss you_ text, and Clarke sighs so violently that her dad puts his newspaper down and looks at Clarke. 

“I don't want to meddle, but I _know_ you'll regret it if you don't at least try to sort out whatever the problem is. She's leaving this weekend, Clarke. After that, it's too late,” he says. 

Clarke hates that she knows he's right. 

“I don't know what to do, dad.”

“Talk to her. Listen to her.”

“It's not that easy,” Clarke sighs. 

“It never is,” he says. “Just… Think about it, okay?”

It takes Clarke's mind less than two minutes to come to terms with the fact that she's got nothing to lose. She already feels a regret that's eating her up. Knowing that it can't get any worse than it already is, Clarke sighs and leaves to face the joined hedge between her and Lexa's backyard. 

Clarke listens for any sign of Lexa being outside, and she finds it in the shuffling of pages of a book. Not knowing what to say, Clarke picks up the inflatable beach ball and throws it over the hedge. 

There's a moment before a book is placed on a table, and another moment of movement through grass before the beach ball is thrown back over the hedge. 

Clarke throws it back. 

“You kissed me,” Lexa says. 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to.”

“I…” Lexa says, and Clarke imagines she's doing that thing where her lips form unfinished words again. 

The ball returns, landing just in front of Clarke. 

“You kissed me back.” Clarke states, and for the first time since Lexa pushed her away, Clarke feels something else than pain. Clarke is angry, and she doesn't know why, but it feels a lot better than the numb state she's been living in lately, so she welcomes it. 

“I’m sorry, Clarke. I shouldn't have.”

“Why not?” 

When there's no answer, Clarke throws the ball back as she says, “and don't use you leaving as an excuse. We both know it's a lie.”

“I don't know what to say, Clarke.”

“The truth, Lexa. Why am I not good enough?” Clarke pushes the words out, and they're big and sharp and scratches her throat, and they're one of many truths that hurt too much to speak. They're out now, no going back, and Clarke feels a much welcomed relief.

There's more than a moment before Lexa speaks again. There are so many soundless moments that Clarke nearly gives up altogether. 

“I'm coming over,” Lexa says, throwing back the ball. 

There's another moment where Clarke stands paralyzed by the idea of facing Lexa, a moment that isn't at all long enough. Before Clarke knows it, Lexa stands before her, broken and sad, and Clarke is _so_ not ready. Lexa is so beautiful – even this version of her with red eyes and tears on her cheeks. 

Lexa looks as broken as Clarke feels, and just as incapable of forming words, too. Her lower lip trembles and Clarke needs to remind herself she's not allowed to kiss her. 

The tears are impossible to hold back now, and Clarke drops her gaze to the grass between their feet, feeling suddenly too exposed. She's about to ask Lexa to go home when she feels thumbs wipe her tears away and arms wrap around her. 

“Don't ever think you're not good enough,” Lexa murmurs. “You're the most amazing person I know, and…”

Clarke feels Lexa's arms tighten around her, and she's not sure if it's her or Lexa who's shaking. 

“I’m a falcon and you're a turtle,” Lexa whispers.

“I don't know what that means,” Clarke says, frowning into Lexa's shirt. 

“I'm nineteen, Clarke. I'm an adult, and–”

“–and I'm a child, Lexa? Is that it? You're playing the age card?” Clarke pulls away, leaving Lexa a lanky mess with sulky shoulders. 

“No! Clarke, you– No! It's just… You deserve the best, Clarke, and I can't be that for you. I know it's a lame thing to say, but you'll understand. In four years when it's your turn to see the world, you'll understand.”

Clarke nods, not because she agrees but because she knows there's no way to make Lexa change her mind. 

“I wish I was four years younger, and that I didn't have to care about law school and adult things yet,” Lexa says, wiping Clarke's cheeks dry again. “And be excited about kissing my best friend again. You don't know how badly I wish that was the case, Clarke.”

Lexa wipes another tear from Clarke's cheeks and leans in to press her lips against Clarke's forehead. “I don't want to lose my best friend, Clarke. But this is all we can be. I'll always be your friend, but I understand if you can't accept that,” she whispers, and then she steps back and leaves Clarke alone in a moonlit backyard with more tears and more heartache and lungs that don't seem to function. 

Unable to move, Clarke stands in the backyard until her dad comes out to check on her. He wraps his arms around her and she cries into his shirt until her knees begin to wobble and he guides her back inside. 

 

°*°

 

It's the morning of Lexa's departure, and Clarke is standing outside Lexa's house contemplating if what she's about to do is good a idea. She lifts her hand to knock on the door, biting her lip nervously as she does, but the door swings open before her knuckles touch wood. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says, surprise coloring her voice. 

“I, um…” Clarke clears her throat, “I came to give you this.” In Clarke's outstretched hand is a page from her sketchbook. 

“For me?” Lexa says, taking the page. She studies it with reverent eyes, and that's how Clarke knows it was the right thing to do. 

“Yes.”

“A turtle and a falcon.”

“Yeah. No crutches, no feathers on fire. You're you and I am me, and time doesn't matter when we hang out,” Clarke says about the sketch of a falcon that soars through the sky while carrying a turtle with its claws. Both animals are viewed from the front, heads held high, the falcon’s wings spread out with pride.

“I don't want to lose my best friend either,” Clarke says, and steps forward to hug Lexa. “Don't be a stranger,” Clarke whispers. 

“I won't,” Lexa promises. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke doesn't want to be _that person_ , but she sees no other choice. Lexa met a girl named Costia, and she's the most amazing thing that's ever happened to her. She's smart and funny and beautiful, and she's terrible with sports which Lexa finds really cute. 

Clarke stops calling Lexa. 

Eventually, Lexa stops calling Clarke. 

When Lexa goes home to visit her family for the holidays, Clarke makes sure to be super busy staying away from home as much as her family schedule allows it. Lexa doesn't approach her, and Clarke is relieved. 

Clarke is nineteen when she learns how complicated love truly is. She's been dating Finn for almost a year when she finds him with his tongue down Raven's throat, and it hurts like hell, but not even half as much as it did when Lexa broke her heart. 

Clarke understands now what Lexa was trying to say four years ago: Love is not worth the struggle.


	3. THREE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> You've all sent me really nice comments on the latest chapter, and I'm so very grateful. Just know that <3  
> I'm sorry if I broke your heart a little, but I promise, I'll do my best to mend it again... eventually :)
> 
> Are you ready to meet Clarke and Lexa 7+ years later? 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# THREE.

 

 

This mild spring breeze caressing her cheeks like a gentle lover is one of Clarke's favorite things in the universe. It holds promises of summer days soon to come, and for the love of all that's good, Clarke _craves_ summer to come soon. Spring is nice, it really is. It's mellow and soft and… nice. Spring with its awakening of colors around her ignites her inspiration, it adds that extra _oomph_ she needs to recover from a cold, cold winter. But summer… Summer is something else. Summer is evenings still illuminated by a persistent sun, it's beer and good company by the lake; summer is warmth and allows for lazy smiles and bright laughter, and Clarke can't wait. But for now, spring is nice, and today is a really good day. 

On a modest, wooden chair – one of those old, battered ones saved from a flea market and given new life with a touch of bright new paint – Clarke sits by a likewise modest table outside her favorite coffee house. The cup of steaming coffee and the blueberry muffin in front of her are far from modest, though. They’re the best in town and one of three reasons this is Clarke’s favorite place. 

The second reason is location. There's a park across the street, and Clarke enjoys to sit under the awning with breezes in her hair, delicious coffee in her belly, and a sketchbook at hand while she observes the scenery in front of her. If anything, it makes for inspiration.

The _third_ reason is the owner of the coffee house, a tall, blonde woman with sensual eyes, a warm smile, and a wise soul. 

“Can I join you?”

“Of course, Niylah, you know you don't have to ask.” Clarke puts down sketchbook and pencil and adjusts in her seat to look up at the barista with a warm smile of her own. Niylah’s hair is in a loose braid hanging over one shoulder, she's wearing a green polo shirt with a generous cleavage, one Clarke is not ashamed to admit she has admired many times. 

Niylah adjusts the white apron on her hips as she takes a seat next to Clarke. “This is nice,” she says, leaning back with a comfortable sigh. 

“Mhm,” Clarke hums, taking a sip of her coffee. She breaks off a piece of the muffin, one for Niylah, then one for herself, before picking up her sketchbook again. 

Clarke came upon Niylah’s place by chance last summer, and she fell in love with the mismatched chairs and the casual vibe, and this particular spot in front of the park with the town's best coffee and blueberry muffin. It became a sanctuary, a place where Clarke went to hide from the real world. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Niylah asks, and Clarke doesn't need to look up to know she's referring to the padded envelope lying in its still sealed state on the table. 

“Yeah,” Clarke grins, her pen effortlessly dancing on paper tracing familiar lines and curves that soon will resemble the profile of Niylah. 

“What!?” Niylah exclaims, eyes wide with amusement. “And you haven't ripped it open yet?”

A sideways glance, and Clarke finds Niylah shaking her head incredulously. “I know what it is,” Clarke says, a coy shrug of her shoulder.

Niylah chuckles, leaning back again. “I expect to see it when you do open it, Clarke.”

“Actually,” Clarke says, eyeing the envelope, “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. Maybe I was waiting for the company. Want to open it with me?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

With nimble fingers, Clarke picks up the envelope and rips off the seal. She has opened many of these envelopes before, but this one is particularly important to her. She's done a lot of commissions, a lot of intriguing projects, but this one holds a lot more personal value than any that came before. It's a children's book about a turtle who wishes he was fast like the wind, and Clarke was headhunted by the author to do the illustrations – unbeknownst to Clarke’s sentiment towards turtles, of course. It’s set to be published next month, the copy in Clarke's hands being the unofficial first copy. 

Brushing a hand over the colorful cover, Clarke reminisces the last turtle she drew. It belongs to Lexa, and Clarke has no idea if she kept it, or threw it out when they stopped talking. It's been seven years, well, almost eight, and in a way, this new turtle – Tim The Turtle – is symbolic. It's a new chapter in Clarke's life, one she's been busting her ass off to reach. 

“I love the colors,” Niylah murmurs, leaning against Clarke's shoulder as she studies the pages Clarke shuffles through. “Tim is handsome with his aviator goggles.”

Clarke chuckles. 

Somewhere inside Clarke's mind, a falcon soars through the sky, its beak twisting with fervor as it pushes forward for more speed. Clarke visualizes this majestic creature with aviators goggles, and underneath them, green eyes shine. 

_I’m a falcon and you’re a turtle._

It's been a while since Clarke missed Lexa. It happens sometimes; she'll see a tall, slender woman with chestnut hair and be disappointed it's not Lexa, or her parents will randomly mention her, and Clarke will excuse herself from the conversation. It hasn't happened in a long time, but it still hurts just as much. 

How is it possible to hear Lexa's voice inside her mind, still as clear as that day? Almost eight years should've erased that, shouldn't it? 

Clarke pushes back the memories and closes the book in her lap. She shifts to look at Niylah, and brushing delicate fingertips over the back of a hand, Clarke says, “if you're free tonight, we should celebrate.”

At fifteen, Clarke had her heart broken. 

At nineteen, Clarke learned that love wasn't for her. 

At twenty-two, Clarke discovered the benefits of casual sex.

“Oh,” Niylah smirks. “What do you have in mind?”

“Your place… I bring a bottle of champagne…” Clarke leans in another inch, giving Niylah that look through eyelashes that always works, “and we'll take it from there.”

With Niylah it's easy. She asks nothing from Clarke that Clarke isn't ready to give, and what Clarke does give, Niylah returns gratifyingly. 

A raised eyebrow meets a licked lip, and Niylah rises from her seat. “Any time after eight,” she says, the low timbre of her voice already doing a number on Clarke. 

“I'll see you then,” Clarke husks, watching Niylah’s lips curl into a smirk before going back inside. 

 

°*°

 

This hour lingers between night and morning, and Clarke looks to the skies admiring how a dark blue crawls from one corner of the world and settles like a hint of gold in another. 

The air is cold against Clarke's heated skin as she walks down empty streets. 

No matter how spent Clarke is, she never stays till morning.

 

°*°

 

It's the first Sunday of May and Clarke sits in her parents’ backyard, her ass in one chair, her feet on another. Insisting on the illusion of summer, Clarke is wearing a tank top over her jeans. The sun warms her shoulders, but the occasional breeze leaves goosebumps in its wake. 

“I'm proud of you, kiddo,” her dad beams as he places his copy of Tim The Turtle on the brunch table. The book was officially published two days ago and it called for a celebratory brunch, he'd insisted. 

“You know I didn't write the story, right?” Clarke says, an amused eye roll sent his way. 

“I want a pair of goggles,” he grins, looking to his wife who just sat down. “What’d you say, Abby? We'll go on one of those air balloon rides we always wanted to try, and I'd wear my new goggles, and the air balloon captain will be envious of me because I'd be more handsome than him.”

“It's me or the goggles, Jake,” her mom says, and her dad winks at Clarke in a conspiring manner. 

“Oooh.” Clarke jumps excitedly from her chair and runs inside to pick up a notepad and a pencil. “You want goggles, dad?” Clarke says, as she sits back down. 

“Yes!” He grins, his smile growing wider when both his daughter and his wife shake their heads in unison. 

With a lip trapped between her teeth, Clarke has soon finished her quick sketch, a caricature of her dad as the captain of his own air balloon. He's wearing the same kind of goggles as Tim The Turtle, and he's waving excitedly at whoever’s looking at the drawing. A Tim The Turtle with matching goggles sits on the edge of the basket. 

“There you go, dad.” Clarke hands on him the notepad. 

“I'm the luckiest dad in the universe,” he calls out – definitely loud enough for their neighbors to hear. “Look! Abby! You husband is the most handsome captain there is!” He waves the sketch in front of Abby who sighs, but with that curl to her lips that means she loves the idiot. 

“Oh, Clarke. You need to sign it,” he says. 

“Seriously?”

“Yes! I’m gonna frame it and hang it on the wall at work and everyone will be jealous because I have an original Clarke Griffin, and they don't.” He says, returning the notepad. 

“You're such a child sometimes,” Clarke mumbles, but with a smile on her lips, the same smile also on her dad’s lips. She signs it and hands it back. “There. Happy?”

“Much!”

It's like any other brunch at the Griffin’s house. The food is on the table long after they're done because Clarke likes to snack on vegetable cuts, and she'll fight her dad over the last strip of bacon. Today, like any other day, Clarke will take the last one, and her dad will pretend to be awfully insulted. 

“So, Clarke. How's the business doing?” Her mom asks. 

“Really well, actually. I've had to turn down a few commissions because I'm too busy at the moment,” Clarke says, ignoring that she knows her mom's question is motivated, not by genuine curiosity, but by lack of faith in the career path Clarke has chosen. 

“What's next?” Her dad asks. 

“I can't say much because, you know, contracts, but it looks like I'll be working on some murals downtown this summer. And the author of Tim The Turtle wants me to illustrate another title. I didn't think I would, but I really like illustrating children's books.”

Both her parents are, in fact, very proud of Clarke – she has no doubts about this. While Clarke knows her mom wishes she'd go to school and pick an academic career, Clarke also knows that she can’t deny that Clarke has done really well for herself. Clarke took a business class a couple of years ago, knowing she'd need a little insight on how to run her own business, but other than that, Clarke has worked really hard perfecting her chosen styles and taking classes to widen her artistic horizon. 

The freedom to do as she pleases is the thing Clarke appreciates the most. 

On this first Sunday of May, Clarke stays outside working on a few sketch ideas for Tim The Turtle posters while her parents go back inside – _we're old, we need a soft couch_. A couple of hours tick by easily when Clarke has a pencil in her hand, and the sun hangs low on the afternoon sky when Clarke puts her sketchbook down, satisfied with the outcome. 

With her feet again propped onto a second chair, Clarke links her hands behind her neck, leans back and casts a lazy smile against the sun. Spring _is_ really, really nice. 

There's a familiar sound from the other side of the hedge. A sigh and a thud of a book against a table. A sound Clarke hasn’t heard in almost eight years, and she cocks her head listening for any sign that her mind isn't playing tricks on her. 

A shuffling of feet in the grass. 

Clarke’s eyes catch _something_ flying over the hedge to land with a floppy _thump_ twenty feet away. 

No. 

It can't be.

Can it? 

Clarke walks with curious steps those twenty feet to have a look at the object. It's her old inflatable beach ball, except it's very much deflated, and the colors are faded so much they're barely there anymore. 

Her heart hammers in her chest. She knows what it means, but doesn't dare believe in it. She's not sure she wants it to be real. 

Clarke throws it back, feeling a lot like her fifteen year old self again. 

There's a chuckle, an air from the nose kind of chuckle, one Clarke always found adorable. This is very much real. It's Lexa on the other side of the hedge throwing a deflated ball across the hedge like no time has passed. Except that's not true. Almost eight years, it's been. Eight! Clarke doesn't know how to feel about that. 

“Clarke?”

“You kept the beach ball?”

“My parents did. I found it in the shed.”

Based on the incoming flat ball, Clarke has been silent for too long. 

“You didn't inflate it,” Clarke states, because anything else might remind her of the past, and Clarke doesn't want to go there anymore.

“For what it's worth, I tried. Seven years exceeds a beach ball's lifespan, it seems.”

“Eight.”

“Yes, eight.”

Clarke throws it back. 

“How are you?” Lexa asks, her voice careful, hopeful. 

“I'm good,” Clarke says, because she is. Mostly. She wasn't good for a long time after Lexa left, but lately things have settled. She's alright. “You?”

“Me too,” Lexa says, with that melancholy that always followed Lexa around. Clarke knows it well; if Lexa's anything like the Lexa Clarke remembers, it means she could be better which means Lexa isn't doing so good. 

The crinkled piece of plastic returns at Clarke's feet, and for a while, Clarke does nothing but stare at it, her hands tucked into her pockets. 

“Clarke?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to hang out? Grab a coffee, maybe? Catch up?” Lexa asks. 

There's an ache at the bottom of Clarke's stomach, and she doesn't know if it's good or bad. She picks up the beach ball and flips it over a few times before swinging it back over the hedge. “How long are you staying?”

“Uh, they didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Clarke frowns at the green bush in front of her. 

“I'm back, Clarke. I’ve been staying in my old room for the most of this week while I settled into my apartment.”

“You're back?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I'll think about it,” Clarke says.

“Yeah, okay,” Lexa says, nervousness clear in her voice. “I am, uhm, I have the same number. Just… Call me if you want.”

There's an uncomfortable pause where Clarke has to bite her lip to stay silent. If she were to speak right now, she'd agree to a cup of coffee, and she's not sure that's what she wants. 

“I won't bother you anymore. It was nice s… talking to you again, Clarke,” Lexa says. 

“You too,” Clarke whispers. She listens to Lexa's footsteps slide through the grass and a chair move across the terrace deck as Lexa takes a seat. 

With a heavy heart, Clarke goes back to the table to pick up her sketchbook. It feels like another goodbye, and for reasons unknown, Clarke feels a sudden urge to visit her old thinking spot. Clarke gives in; perhaps it'll help her clear her mind. 

 

°*°

 

There’s a certain nostalgia attached to sitting on this uncomfortable rock sketching randomness while disentangling the mess of one’s head. It’s been a long time since Clarke has sat here watching the afternoon sun dance on the lake while the breeze pulled at her hair. It's been a really long time since she's had the need to. 

This tranquility is incomparable.

Still, Clarke's mind is tumbling. 

It certainly doesn’t help that every new sketch she begins is of, well, Lexa. The Lexa she remembers from eight years ago. The girl who broke her heart. The one who left for law school and met the nicest girl in the world. The one Clarke stopped talking to because it hurt too much. 

The one who’s now back – after eight years – and wants to catch up with Clarke.

And Clarke doesn’t know what to do.

Clarke flips the sketch book shut and places it next to her. With a sigh she buries her face in her hands. 

There are footsteps somewhere behind Clarke, footsteps that suddenly stop. Clarke looks over her shoulder to find a wide-eyed Lexa frozen in time. A Lexa who looks just like Clarke remembers, except her cheekbones and jawbone are more prominent. This is lazy Sunday Lexa with loose jeans, and a thin hoodie, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. 

“Clarke,” she breathes. “I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here. I'll, uh… I'll go. I'm sorry.” Lexa takes a step back before turning around. 

“Wait!” Clarke calls.

Because Lexa left her once already, and back then Clarke couldn't do anything about it, but she can now. 

“It's okay, I won't impose,” Lexa says, looking back at Clarke with apologetic eyes. 

“Stay,” Clarke says, and when Lexa doesn't move, Clarke shifts to make room for Lexa on the rock. 

“Okay.” Lexa walks tentatively back to Clarke and slides onto the rock. 

Their shoulders touch, and Clarke tries her best not to think about what happened the last time they sat like this. She tries not to reminisce kissing her best friend, and she tries to forget Lexa's rejection. 

Silence is uncomfortable. 

“You broke my heart,” Clarke then whispers. 

“I know,” Lexa whispers back. “I lost my best friend.”

“I want my friend back,” Clarke says. The way it hurts to say out loud, assures Clarke that she really means it. 

“I’d like that too.”

“Good.” 

“Good,” Lexa copies, allowing a soft smile onto her lips. She sends Clarke a sideways glance, but Clarke keeps her own eyes glued to the waterfront. 

“Why did you come back, Lexa?”

“I'm a tired falcon,” Lexa says, and Clarke can’t believe Lexa remembers. “This town is my home, it just took me a long time to realize.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, barely a whisper. 

“I'm not leaving this time.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Looking at Lexa, Clarke gives her a smile that only tugs at one corner of her mouth. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it makes Lexa smile back nonetheless. 

“I'll text you, alright? When I'm ready,” Clarke says, sliding off the rock.

“Of course,” Lexa says, Clarke already ten feet away. 

 

°*°

 

Clarke huffs impatiently and kicks at the sheets that are twisting around her feet. Again. It's suddenly too hot, so she gets up to open her window a bit. And then it gets too cold, but she's too annoyed to close it again, so she stays put, kicking at her sheets some more as she tries to find comfort. 

This tossing and turning is driving her mad. 

Hating to be reminded that she can't sleep, she turned her alarm clock face side down many tosses and turns ago, and she needs to remind herself she can't actually hear it ticking – it's a digital clock, for crying out loud. 

The worst thing is that every time Clarke closes her eyes, she sees Lexa, and Clarke doesn't want to see Lexa, or think about Lexa, or remember Lexa, or _anything_ Lexa. It _hurts_. And Clarke doesn't want to hurt. 

Clarke just wants to sleep. 

 

°*°

 

With two sleepless nights in the bag, and a desperate need for a good night's sleep, Clarke calls Niylah for a good time of distraction. 

Clarke brings a six-pack, but Niylah pulls it from her grasp, leaves it to be forgotten on the kitchen counter, and pulls Clarke in for a kiss, all in one swift motion. 

It's what Clarke needs. 

For most of the night, Clarke speaks with her body until she has no more words, and no more thoughts. 

Niylah holds her, tells her she's allowed to stay, but Clarke doesn't break her own rule; she never _sleeps_ over. 

It's somewhere between 4 and 5am when Clarke is on her way home. Physically worn out, she looks forward to finally get some sleep. As she turns a corner, someone bumps into her, a runner. 

“I'm so sorry, I was–Clarke?”

Awfully disoriented, Clarke clings to the arms of the one holding her up. She knows that voice. 

“Lexa?”

“Clarke, are you okay?” Lexa asks. She pulls her hoodie down, concerned eyes roaming the entirety of Clarke’s body. 

“Yes,” Clarke says, her voice void of emotion. 

Clarke knows she looks a mess, with disheveled hair, maybe even a hickey or two at the swell of her neck. She knows the second Lexa realizes what's going on – that Clarke is doing the walk of shame – because Lexa's green eyes fleet to the asphalt between them, taking a step back, pushing her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. 

There, under dull orange street lamps, for the first time in her life, Clarke feels ashamed to have chosen this lifestyle. She feels dirty – not the good kind. 

“I, uh… I gotta go.” Clarke moves past Lexa, the tears already streaming down her face. She waits another corner before wiping her cheeks dry with the sleeve of her shirt. 

Clarke does eventually fall asleep, but not before playing her rendezvous with Lexa on repeat until even her mind becomes too exhausted to function anymore. 

The thing is: for the next couple of days, Lexa occupies Clarke's mind in such an all-consuming manner that Clarke decides she needs to do _something_ about it. If they can't become friends again, perhaps what she needs is closure. Either way, this limbo she's in right now is not working at all. That's why Clarke finally decides to take the bull by its horns. 

Come tomorrow, Clarke is meeting Lexa for a cup of coffee.


	4. FOUR.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!   
> Just want to say that I am humbled by the love you all give this story! Honestly! I really appreciate you giving this story a chance <3 
> 
> This story gets a lot of comments - please do continue, I love it! - and I want to address one thing:  
> Some of you pointed out the illegal aspect of being with a minor, and I apologize for not making this clear sooner; but where I'm from the age of consent is 15 (I made Clarke 15 so I didn't have to address that issue - I deliberately chose not to touch that theme). Having said that, it doesn't change the fact that there's an emotional aspect of starting a relationship between a 15-year-old and a 19-year-old... and while there's no question about legality, there's definitely a question about right and wrong. And yes, this is one of many reasons Lexa rejected Clarke.
> 
> Here's chapter 4 <3
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~anonbeme

# FOUR.

 

 

On the table in front of Clarke is a half eaten blueberry muffin and an almost empty cup of coffee. Her tastebuds clearly sense the aroma of the bitter drink and the crumbly sweetness of cake, but she has no recollection of consuming it. 

Clarke’s mind is off somewhere, and if she has to be honest with herself, she knows where that somewhere is. 

Lexa.

Lexa and their coffee date. Their _friendly_ coffee date. Or, their _let's give this friendship a try_ coffee date, really. 

Clarke is nervous. Knee-bobbing and stress-sweating nervous. Between pulling at the hem of her shirt, rubbing at her neck, or along her thighs, Clarke's hands can't find rest. Not even sketching works, and she scowls at the empty page lying face up next to her muffin while taking another sip of her coffee. Then she takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. 

Okay. 

She can do this.

If only she could figure out if she was _excited_ nervous or _terrified_ nervous. At some level, Clarke supposes this is exactly why she contacted Lexa. To figure out where she stands and where she wants this to go. 

So yeah, she has to do this.

In her favorite spot under the sun-bleached awning, Clarke watches strangers walk by. None of them are Lexa, and Clarke is a little annoyed with herself, the way she thinks she sees her and allows the disappointment to seep into her veins over and over again.

See, Clarke had it all figured out. She’d get here early, ease her mind into it with familiarity and sugar and caffeine to calm her down. She even went as far as to think a couple of minutes talking with Niylah would give her the strength she needed to face this demon of the past. Except, Niylah has been busy serving her afternoon customers, and maybe it's for the better after all, because Clarke doesn't know how to explain the concept of Lexa to Niylah. 

Clarke wouldn't even know where to begin. 

Except: Lexa broke her heart.

“Am I late?”

That voice Clarke recognizes better than her own pulls Clarke out of her thoughts. She looks up to find a frowning Lexa checking her watch. Lexa is wearing a casual business attire with black pants and a dusty blue shirt, one of those fancy, expensive ones that never earns a crinkle. Her hair is tugged behind one ear, it hangs loose around her shoulders, still soft and wavy. 

This is adult Lexa; the one Clarke assumes is now a lawyer. 

This is a new Lexa. 

A Lexa that now looks at Clarke with a careful worry, apology written in her eyes. And _this_ Lexa, this one Clarke knows. It’s her childhood best friend. 

“Uh, no. It's me… I’m early,” Clarke says, straightening her back against the chair. Clarke puts her hands on the armrests to push herself up. “What can I get you?”

“No, no. I’ve got it,” Lexa smiles, then walks inside. 

Through the window, Clarke watches Lexa walk up to Niylah to place her order, and while doing so, Lexa points at Clarke. They both smile at her – the one Clarke couldn't have, and the one who deserves better from Clarke – and it's so unsettling that Clarke feels a sudden urge to look away. She goes back to study strangers walking by, for a moment wishing she were somewhere else. 

“I like this place. It's very… you,” Lexa says as she places a plate with three muffins on the table. 

“How's that?” Clarke asks, thinking that eight years is a long time, and Lexa sounds awfully confident in her statement. 

“Colorful,” Lexa says, taking a seat across from Clarke as she scans her surroundings. “Vibrant. Free-spirited… Charming.”

No one ever calls Clarke charming unless they are blatantly hitting on her, but this is Lexa, and Lexa doesn't blatantly hit on people – at least not as far as Clarke remembers – so Clarke doesn’t know what it means.

“You know,” Lexa says, wide-eyed, “warm and a little bit homely.” 

Clarke nods. _That’s_ the Lexa she remembers; needing to correct her mistakes. Clarke still doesn’t know how to respond, so she points at the plate. “Three muffins and nothing to drink?”

“The blueberry is for you, the chocolate is for me, and we’ll have to fight over the apple. And I ordered a refill for you. She said she’d bring out our drinks,” Lexa says, her eyes jumping from the muffins to Clarke, “I, uh, I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

Clarke brakes off a piece of the blueberry muffin, studying it as if it were a puzzle. She takes her time chewing it, savoring the taste, and out of the corner of her eye, she notices Lexa doing that thing with her lips, forming words that don’t come out. Clarke’s instinct has always been to keep Lexa happy, and she doesn’t look happy right now. She wants to ask her what’s wrong, but she’s not sure she wants to know the answer. 

Their silence is interrupted when Niylah brings their drinks. “Refill for you, Clarke, and green tea for you. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?” 

“Thank you, Niylah,” Clarke says, receiving a reassuring smile before Niylah goes back inside.

“Is this awkward?” Lexa asks, “I’m sorry, I’m making this awkward.” Lexa’s eyes fall to the muffins, she frowns, and her throat bobs with a hard swallowing motion.

Clarke sighs internally. It’s not Lexa’s fault, and it's not fair to her that Clarke is conflicted by her return. Really, it’s Clarke who makes this awkward. It's because she keeps forgetting that Lexa, before anything else, was her best friend. It’s because she keeps focusing on what happened after Clarke kissed her. It's foolish, because she does want to give their friendship a second chance. 

Okay.

She can do this.

“Green tea?” Clarke raises an eyebrow, makes an effort. 

Surprised eyes – still beautifully green – meet Clarke’s. “It’s healthy,” she argues, but with a hint of embarrassment. 

“It tastes like hay,” Clarke deadpans.

“Then you’re making it wrong.” Lexa chances a smile, and it eases some of the pain in Clarke’s heart. 

“Sure,” Clarke grins, and it feels good. “So… How are _really_ doing, Lexa?”

Lexa sighs, takes a sip of her tea and leans back in her chair. “Polis is… too fast-paced for me. I was buried in work and forgot to take care of myself, and I just… I reached a point where I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to slow down, and I woke up one day and realized I missed home. So I… I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I’m sorry. I’m okay. Really.”

“Eight years,” Clarke says. It's really a question, and Lexa understands. 

“I know. I hate that it took me this long, but I guess it was a journey I needed to take,” Lexa shrugs, and Clarke gets the feeling Lexa carries many regrets on her shoulders, regrets she tries to validate with rationale. 

“You became a lawyer?”

“I did,” Lexa nods, like a drunk man sobering up.

“And Costia?”

Lexa shakes her head. “I… Remember the last time I called you? She broke up with me the day after.”

“I’m sorry, Lexa,” Clarke whispers.

“Don’t be. It was my fault,” Lexa says, and when Clarke opens her mouth to speak, Lexa says, “no, it’s okay, Clarke. It’s a long time ago, and she was right. Besides, I’d rather hear about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I want to know why your dad wants goggles,” Lexa grins. 

“He didn't,” Clarke groans as she envisions her dad randomly running into Lexa outside their house and starting to ramble about goggles. 

“He did.” Lexa nods, doing a terrible job fighting back a smile. 

“Okay, hang on,” Clarke says, rising from her seat. She hurries inside to pick up Niylah’s copy of Tim The Turtle – Clarke still can't believe she actually went and bought it – and hands it to Lexa as she sits back down. “That's why.”

The way Lexa studies the cover, with wide eyes full of awe and curious fingertips, is just like old times. Clarke has never felt more proud than in this very moment. 

“This is amazing, Clarke,” Lexa whispers. She bites her lip as if she's contemplating saying more. 

Clarke can tell by the way Lexa's eyes flicker downwards, that she chooses to keep it hidden, and Clarke has to swallow her curiosity, because they're not that kind of friends. Not anymore. Instead, she says, “thank you.” 

“Is that what you do? Illustrate books?” 

“It's some of it, yeah. I do a lot of commissioned work,” Clarke says, then a grin forms on her lips. “Mom nearly had a heart attack when I told her I wasn't going to get a degree.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, attention still on the book. “Of course she did. I'd always encourage any young mind to stay in school, but I always knew that you didn't have to. You have a rare talent and a stubborn mind. You'll be fine.”

Clarke can't stop smiling, and she suddenly doesn't remember why she was nervous. This is her Lexa. Well, a more complex version, maybe. 

“Why are you smiling like that?” Lexa says, looking at her. 

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“No. Well… I'm not used to you speaking with so many words, is all,” Clarke teases. 

Lexa rolls her eyes again, this time with amusements on her lips. “That's what growing up did to me,” she says. 

Before Clarke knows it, her second cup of coffee is empty, the muffin plate too, a clear evidence of time passing although it doesn't feel like it. Conversation flows easily between them, like before Clarke ruined everything by kissing her best friend. When Clarke looks at Lexa, she feels complete in a way she didn't know she could. Maybe allowing Lexa’s friendship back into her life isn't such a bad thing after all. 

“Oh,” Lexa says, checking her watch. “Do you think… Can we do this again? I don't have more time, I'm afraid.”

“I'd like that,” Clarke says, and they smile at each other.

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Lexa rises from her seat and lingers behind it, hesitant. “Thank you, Clarke.”

“For what?”

“This,” Lexa says. “A second chance.”

Lexa's words are delivered with such sincerity that Clarke doesn't know what to say. Instead she stands up, walks around the tiny coffee table towards a Lexa who looks scared more than anything. She wraps her arms around Lexa's torso and pulls her closer, into a hug, and Lexa responds with an almost-not-there gasp and arms carefully enveloping Clarke's shoulders, too. 

“Eight years,” Clarke whispers. 

“You're taller,” Lexa murmurs back. 

Clarke chuckles, “an inch maybe.” Lexa is still taller than her. 

“Still.”

“Mhm.”

“I have to go. I'll call you.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, not wanting to let go. She just got her best friend back. 

“Okay,” Lexa copies. 

 

°*°

 

Friendly coffee dates become Clarke and Lexa's thing. They occur weekly at first, then twice a week, and by the end of June, their catching up of old times have been replaced with anecdotes from their current lives and a need for it to be more. It's been eight years, but Clarke thinks it feels a little like those eight years never happened. Lexa is Clarke's best friend again, and she thinks, perhaps, Clarke is Lexa's best friend again, too. 

On this particular day of June, Clarke smiles against the summer sun as she walks with Lexa down the street. They stop to say their goodbyes as Lexa needs to go back to work. Lexa does that thing with her lips – moving, but without sound – and Clarke stops her with a hand on her arm and patient eyes. 

“So, I was thinking,” Lexa says, earning a smile from Clarke, “maybe we could hang out at my place sometime?”

“What, you mean like pizza and Disney?” Clarke says. It was meant as a joke, but Lexa beams brighter than the sun, eliciting an equally bright laughter from Clarke who no longer cares about the joke. “Hakuna matata?”

“Hakuna matata,” Lexa agrees, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “So, is that a yes?”

“Mhm,” Clarke hums. “Saturday?”

“Sounds good. I have to go. I'll call you.” Lexa says meeting Clarke in a goodbye hug. 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

With a smile on her face, Clarke watches Lexa turn around the corner, before she walks across the street. “Once a child, always a child,” Clarke says, only for the summer sun to hear. 

Saturday finds Clarke walking towards Lexa's apartment with a pizza box in one hand and a six pack in the other. She awkwardly rings the doorbell with an elbow, and when Lexa opens the door, Clarke awkwardly hugs her with food and drinks still in her hands. 

“Clarke Griffin bringing beer?” Lexa mock gasps. “I never thought I'd see the day!”

It earns Lexa an elbow to her stomach as Clarke walks by and a wink thrown over one shoulder.

“Remember when I was fifteen and I thought drinking beer by the lake was immature?” Clarke wonders out loud. 

Lexa chuckles. “What do you call two adults drinking beer and watching Disney movies?”

“I damn fine idea, is what it is,” Clarke grins. “And don't forget the pizza.”

“God forbid.”

“Alright, give me the tour,” Clarke says, already gaping at the room with envious eyes. 

Lexa's place is a top floor apartment in the nice part of town, and upon entering, you walk directly into a spacious room with a high ceiling and bright walls. One wall is all floor to ceiling windows, with a sliding door to a balcony. The room is a combined room with a kitchen island slash counter in one end, and a couch and TV area set up in the other. The walls are naked apart from a bookshelf next to the TV. 

“Bathroom and bedroom in there,” Lexa says, pointing to a door by the TV. 

“I love the balcony!” Clarke says, pizza and beer forgotten on the kitchen counter as she walks towards the open sliding door. “What a view!” Clarke says as her eyes roam the park with the small lake.”

“It's nice,” Lexa says, a humble smile on her lips as she takes a stand next to Clarke. “That's why I bought it. It's not _our_ lake, but it's close enough to remind me of home.” 

Our lake. 

Clarke always refer to it as _her_ lake, conveniently forgetting that Lexa was part of her life once. Afraid to dig up old memories she'd rather not think about right now, she changes the subject. 

“So… Your walls are awfully white,” Clarke says. 

“I know,” Lexa groans. “I might have to pay you to fix that for me at some point.”

“Oooh,” Clarke says excitedly, stepping back inside to study the room once more. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Lexa grins. “I always admired your art, Clarke. Any other art won't do,” she says, the intensity in her eyes making Clarke blush enough to avert her eyes. 

“Get the movie going,” Clarke says, distracting herself by getting the pizza and the beer. “If we start it now, we have time to see the sunset from your balcony.”

“Okay,” Lexa grins. 

“Okay.”

 

°*°

 

Friendly movie nights turn into beer and take out on Lexa's balcony. Always at Lexa's place. It's not that Clarke doesn't want Lexa at her place, it's just that, Lexa's place is really nice, and Clarke's place is a mess with art supplies and ongoing projects all over. It's easier this way, and not at all a problem with this fabulous view. 

The evening sun hangs low on the horizon as it bathes the park in warm orange light. Both Lexa and Clarke are sitting with their feet propped against the railing, a cold beer in hand. 

Lexa is awfully quiet tonight, pouty lower lip and sulking shoulders and all. Clarke waits, but Lexa looks like she's getting more lost in her head by every minute. 

“Hey,” Clarke murmurs, and when Lexa doesn't respond, Clarke taps her arm with a knuckle. 

“Mh?” Lexa looks up. 

“You can tell me.”

Lexa shakes her head, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Do you ever…” Lexa frowns. 

“Lexa,” Clarke frowns, too. 

Lexa sighs through her nose. “Do you ever think about, uhm,” she swallows, “the kiss?”

“What ki–” Clarke watches Lexa's eyes fall to the empty bottle in her hand, her fingers pulling at the label.

Oh. 

“I haven't in a long time,” Clarke says. 

Clarke lies. 

But it's complicated, and it's a mess, and if she were to allow herself to open that bag again, Clarke would be free falling towards an unknown destination. Clarke is in a good, uncomplicated place right now with her best friend. Her casual arrangement with Niylah is easy. She earns good money on her art, and everything is… uncomplicated. And it's nice. 

Lexa nods, her eyes pinned to the bottle. 

“Do you?” Clarke asks, and she curses herself for doing so. This box was supposed to stay sealed. 

“All the time,” Lexa whispers, her voice shaky.

“No,” Clarke says, the remains of her heartbreak breaking through the surface. She places her bottle of beer on the small table next to her, the sharp thud of glass against glass startling Lexa to look at Clarke. “No!” Clarke repeats, louder this time, angry. “You don't get to do that!”

Not knowing what else to do, Clarke gets up and goes back inside. She runs an anxious hand through her hair, then picks up her wallet and keys from the counter, and with an echo of “I'm sorry… Clarke! Please don't leave” on her tail, Clarke runs out the door. 

The streets are hot and humid, but it's nothing against the fury boiling inside Clarke. It's the heartbreak she suppressed a long time ago, and it's Lexa not letting it stay in the past. And to make matters worse, Clarke wishes Lexa would have run after her, and she hates herself for it despite knowing nothing good will come out of it. A furious Clarke is relentlessly stubborn; Lexa knows that too. 

Clarke trudges aimlessly through empty streets until the moon rises and the temperature drops. She shivers under the starlit sky as she turns the last corner before she's home. 

The second her apartment door closes shut behind her, the tears start falling. Her apartment is empty and cold, and she leaves the light off as she walks to her bedroom. With her face buried in pillows she feels fifteen again, raw and vulnerable and with all these emotions she can't express with words. 

Clarke cries herself to sleep, and when she gets up, she buries herself in her work. She ignores Lexa's texts. She ignores them for days. 

Her apartment soon feels like a prison of unfinished projects and too much self loathing. She needs a friend. She needs… uncomplicated. 

It's a late afternoon when Clarke finds herself seated under the awning outside Niylah’s coffee house. It brings her comfort, but not peace. 

“I can't join you, I’m short staffed today,” Niylah says, placing a hand at the junction between Clarke's shoulder and neck, rubbing warmth into her skin, “but why don't you stop by tonight, after eight.”

Clarke looks at Niylah’s hand and nods. Old routines, that's what Clarke needs. Niylah is good at making Clarke forget, she's a joyous distraction, and for the love of all that's good, Clarke badly needs a distraction right now. 

At 8:15 Clarke knocks on Niylah’s door, but this time she doesn't bring anything but shaky hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans and pain in her eyes. 

“I'm sorry,” Clarke says, staying on her side of the threshold. “I can't.”

“You don't owe me anything,” Niylah says, and Clarke hates that Niylah is so nonchalant and casual about this when all Clarke has done is use her. Well, not purposefully so – they've always been honest about what this means to them – but the guilt is still there. 

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” Clarke whispers. She blinks back early tears letting her eyes fall to the floor. 

Niylah chuckles and takes a step closer to Clarke. She cups one cheek and places a kiss on the other. “You should tell her,” Niylah says. 

“Who?” Clarke frowns. 

“Lexa. You should tell her how you feel.”

“I…” Wide-eyed, Clarke shakes her head. “No. It's not like that.”

“Clarke,” Niylah says, she rests her hands on both Clarke's shoulders. “I've seen who you are around Lexa. You light up in her presence like I've never seen you before. And right now you're bottling it all up. Set it free. You deserve to be happy.”

Clarke nods, not really sure why. “I gotta go,”she says. “I'm sorry.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

“I… Okay,” Clarke takes a step back. “Yeah,” she says before turning around, leaving Niylah on her doorstep. 

 

°*°

 

It's not until Clarke stands before Lexa's apartment building that she realizes where she is. 

It's not really _her_ feet that carry her up the many stairs, and if anything, it's a traitorous hand that knocks on Lexa’s door. 

Holding her breath, Clarke see the door swing open feeling the anxiety rise with every inch. 

“Clarke?” Lexa looks surprised. 

“You broke my heart,” Clarke says, because that's the truth that triumphs over all other truths. 

Lexa's face drops, and she opens her mouth to speak, but Clarke steps forward swallowing her words in a kiss. Lexa's hands find Clarke's hips as Clarke pulls at her neck. 

The door slams shut behind Clarke as she pushes Lexa inside. It breaks the kiss, and Lexa tries to speak again, but Clarke stops her with a thumb pressed against her lips. 

“No talking,” Clarke says, _begging_ Lexa with her eyes to save it for later. She waits for Lexa to nod before pulling her in for another kiss. 

This Lexa is new. 

Exhilarating. 

Earth-shattering. 

This Lexa pulls Clarke closer, nips at her lips and steals her breath away. She undresses Clarke with nimble fingers and gasps when Clarke presses kisses on the inside of her thigh. 

This Lexa breaks Clarke apart with her tenderness. She makes Clarke forget about anyone that ever came before. 

This Lexa kisses Clarke's cheeks when tears begin to fall, and she keeps her promise of no talking as she holds Clarke close and runs soothing fingers down her spine. 

There's a first for everything. 

Clarke wakes up in the early hours entangled in sheets and Lexa’s scent. The morning light tickles her eyelids open, and she finds herself looking at a sleeping Lexa, bare shoulders and a disarray of chestnut hair carelessly spread across pillows. 

Clarke feels constricted. She wants to be here, she wants to run fingers through soft hair and draw circles into naked skin until the beautiful woman next to her stirs and she can witness eyelashes flutter open. 

But she _can't_. 

Clarke has a rule, and the few times she broke it, things became complicated… And complicated _hurts_. 

Slowly as to not wake up Lexa, Clarke slides out of bed. She searches for her clothes, tiptoeing around Lexa's bedroom, assuming what she doesn't find here she'll find in the living room. 

Before leaving, Clarke looks at Lexa one last time, and she silently gasps at what she sees, oblivious as to why she didn't notice before. Lexa lies on her stomach, bathed in the morning sun, arms tucked under her pillow, and sheets barely covering her hips. There, on her back is a tattoo Clarke didn't know she had, but one Clarke knows very well. It's the falcon and the turtle from the sketch Clarke gave her the day she left. The wings spread proudly across Lexa's shoulder blades, and it's _beautiful_. 

The gravity of what this means is too much for Clarke, and when she feels a tear running down her cheek, she decides it's time to leave. She finds the rest of her clothes, gets dressed, and before sliding out the door, she leaves a note on the kitchen counter. 

 

_We'll talk later._  
_-C._  



	5. FIVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession. I originally planned for this verse to be 5 chapters in Clarke's POV, but I've read your comments and I've thought a lot about it, and I really want to explore Lexa's POV too. So... I'm writing a 6th chapter which will continue the story, but from Lexa's POV. Hopefully, it'll answer some of your questions. I can't promise to have it ready by next Wednesday, but it shouldn't be more than two weeks (if it is, come yell at me, alright?) 
> 
> As for this chapter, the last Clarke chapter, I want to make an official apology if you were expecting the big wooing with charming Lexa doing million things to win Clarke back. The thing is, I had to "tweak" that part of the prompt a little to make it more realistic... So, however subtle it may be, Lexa will do everything she can <3
> 
> I truly hope you will enjoy this. And I hope you'd like to read Lexa's chapter once it's ready, too.
> 
> As for now, enjoy! <3  
> ~anonbeme

# FIVE.

 

 

Clarke's head is throbbing, it's dull, but persistent. Her legs are wobbly as she undresses in front of the bathroom mirror, and she must concentrate as to not tip over. Casting a glance at the mirror, she takes a minute to study her own reflection. Niylah would always leave a bite mark or two near her collarbone, but all Lexa left was tenderness and tingling sensations and an insatiable craving for soft lips and warm tongue strokes. 

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror, Clarke wonders if they hold the answer she needs. Her body is still wrapped in the smell of Lexa’s sheets, and in its wake, images of last night follows. It clouds her judgement. Clarke itches to return to Lexa’s apartment, to snuggle up to her, let now be now and the past stay in the past.

But it’s not that easy. 

While she doesn't regret last night, a part of her – that part of her that broke eight years ago – wishes she did, wishes she could take it back.

It would be easier then. 

Clarke steps into her shower cabinet with a heavy sigh. 

The eight year old cracks in Clarke’s heart were never mended. She realizes that now. And as she twists the red knob and the blue knob letting water rinse her from a night of beautiful sin, Clarke breaks. She cries, silently screaming under still cold water. She cries _so hard_ that she forgets to breathe, her lungs protesting, forcing her to heave in air with so much force it burns. 

The cold tiles are slippery, wet against Clarke’s palms, it’s hard to stay standing, but she fights the wobbly knees, not able to see a thing through tears and water and heavy eyelids. 

Gradually, the water warms up and Clarke’s muscles relax. She let's the onslaught of water drum against her neck, her head hung low between her shoulders. Eventually, the tears ebb out, and Clarke finds the strength to wash off the rest of Lexa’s scent with soap and shampoo. 

All physical evidence is gone, but Clarke can’t forget. 

Last night, Clarke had a taste of the Lexa she so desperately wanted eight years ago. That Lexa and that Clarke still exist. They were nineteen and fifteen again. Except they aren’t. They’re twenty-seven and twenty-three, and that still leaves four years between them.

_I don't want to lose my best friend, Clarke. But this is all we can be._

It infuriates Clarke. 

Lexa. Broke. Her. Heart. 

And now she has the audacity to make it flutter again. 

No.

This time Clarke stands her ground. 

No more kissing her best friend. 

Clarke turns off the water, steps out of the shower, and grabs the towel on the rack. Once dry, she leaves the towel on the floor in a lazy pile. Too tired, too sore, too broken, Clarke goes straight to bed, and she finds a flicker of hope in the way the sheets envelope her naked body. This place – her apartment – has not been tainted by the presence of Lexa, and for now, it's enough to make Clarke forget. 

 

°*°

 

For what it’s worth, Clarke does sleep, and for those few hours, she sleeps like a rock. Through the window, the sun is burning her alive, and she mutters profanities in a half-asleep state as she envisions herself pull down the blinds, but really, she doesn’t feel like leaving the bed any time soon. Instead she rolls over, groaning as her body seems more heavy than usual, until her head reaches the tiny patch of a shadow still at the corner of her bed. 

This will have to do.

Clarke sighs.

This is unbearable.

There's also that dryness in her throat, and that stinging in her eyes, and the awareness of unruly hair everywhere because she went to bed without drying it. 

And her stomach growls. 

“Okay,” Clarke mumbles, feeling dry saliva pull uncomfortably at the corner of her mouth. She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue, and it brings Clarke back to last night when a very beautiful and a very much naked Lexa would stare at her lips with hungry eyes. The ghost of Lexa's breath against her lips make Clarke gasp, and… 

No. 

Shit. 

Bad idea. 

Clarke needs a distraction. 

It's frantic and ungracefully uncoordinated when Clarke pulls the sheets off and swings her feet out of bed in one swift motion. It leaves Clarke with a headrush, and she considers if getting up is at all worth it. When her own naked skin against white sheets morph into images of a naked Lexa again, Clarke shakes her head, shaking the memories away, and hurries out of bed to get dressed. 

She tames her hair in a messy bun, and while she waits for the toaster to release the bread she checks her phone. There's a text from Lexa, and Clarke contemplates reading it now, reading it later, or not reading it at all, but before any rational thought has a chance of survival, her thumb has already made the decision for her. 

_**Lexa** _  
_Hey Clarke, I found your message on the counter. I'd really like that talk, but I understand if you need time. No pressure. I'm here when you're ready. -L_

Time. 

Tragically ironic, is what it is. 

Eight years ago, all Clarke needed was time. More time with Lexa. And now, Lexa is here giving her all the time she needs when, really, Clarke just wants… 

Clarke doesn't know what she wants. 

One part of her wishes Lexa never came back, another part wishes Lexa never left. Then there's the part that wishes to take back that first kiss eight years ago, but also the one craving more of last night. There’s also the part that wishes the four years between them didn’t exist… There’s always _that_ part… And then there’s the part of Clarke’s mind that shuts down every time it’s reminded of her shattered heart. 

The toaster pops, startling Clarke out of her thoughts. She abandons the phone on the counter to butter her toast. Leaning back against the counter, Clarke bites into her toast as her eyes slide to the easel in the corner. Her heart deflates. There’s no way she’ll be able to focus on work today.

An afternoon by the lake with her sketchbook and random doodles… Yeah, that would do.

The sun is nice.

The air smells of summer.

The closer Clarke gets to the lake, the more she relaxes. It’s been a rough couple of days, and she just needs a moment to gather her thoughts. 

Clarke kicks distractedly to pebbles as she approaches her thinking spot by the lake. 

She stops in her tracks. 

Someone's already sitting there. 

Lexa. 

Back turned on Clarke, Lexa sits cross-legged on the rock with sulking shoulders – and pouty lips, Clarke is sure – throwing tiny rocks into the water. 

Clarke's heart picks up speed, and there's that duality of excitement and anxiety again. It's become quite the companion these days, one Clarke would gladly let go of, if she could.  
Lexa hasn't noticed her yet, and she considers sneaking away, but no one deserves to be walked out on twice in a day, so Clarke stays. She walks up to Lexa, making sure to shuffle her feet so Lexa hears her. Lexa cocks her head an inch, but doesn't move otherwise. 

“Can I join you?” Clarke asks. 

Without words Lexa shifts to make room for Clarke, and Clarke takes a seat, shoulder against shoulder, thigh against thigh. She looks at Lexa whose eyes are glued to the horizon. Lexa has been crying, and the realization feels like a blow to the gut. Clarke thinks this might be the worst kind of hurt. 

Lexa's lips are moving, but as Clarke expected, no words come out. Clarke wants to reach out, to grab Lexa's hand and give it a squeeze, but she's not sure she's allowed to anymore. She's not even sure if they're still friends. 

“You left,” Lexa says, finally finding her voice. 

Clarke hesitates. “Yeah,” she whispers, suddenly ashamed. 

“Why?”

“I have a rule.”

Lexa nods, and Clarke doesn't know if it means she understands, or she doesn't want to know what the rule is.

“I look at you,” Clarke says, surprising herself by speaking up. These are words that should've been said a long time ago, “and I see the girl who broke my heart. And I can't shake the image. Right here. On this stone. You ruined me, Lexa. And… You came back and I thought I could have my friend back… I thought I could separate the two,” Clarke shakes her head. “I don't understand… What changed, Lexa? I'm still four years younger.”

“What? No!” Lexa looks at Clarke for the first time, wide-eyed. If Clarke didn't know better she'd think Lexa was panicking. 

“No, Clarke,” Lexa says, “it wasn't the four years. I…”Lexa huffs impatiently, shaking her head defeatedly. “I needed to find my place in the world, and I knew I couldn't do that if… if I was attached to home, to you. I… Clarke, I wasn't going to do that to you. You deserved better than to be stuck with me while I struggled with adulthood and you still had four years left of being allowed to be a child.”

“But you said…” Clarke nearly trips over the words not quite sure what she means to say except she's confused. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says, looking at her with soft, broken eyes. “I was madly in love with you.”

“What? But you said…” It's clear in her mind. Lexa said they could never be more than friends. That's what Clarke is trying to remind Lexa, but the words are stuck. 

“I had to,” Lexa deflates. “I didn't know how to be someone you deserved.”

“You were in love with me.”

“Yes. I… I still am.” Lexa blinks. “I… Yes.”

“You… Goddamnit, Lexa!” Clarke jumps off the rock not able to sit still with the frustration boiling under her skin, glaring at Lexa with thunderous eyes. “You. _Ruined._ Me. I thought…” Clarke throws her hands to her sides, muttering a “nevermind” under her breath as she begins walking away. 

“You–” Clarke yells, spinning around to face Lexa again, but Lexa is on her feet already chasing Clarke down. “What are you doing?” Clarke gasps just before Lexa pulls her into a kiss. 

Clarke fights it. 

Or she tries to. 

Maybe for a split second. 

And for the love of all that's good, it doesn’t work. 

Because Lexa is kissing her and it makes her weak. Wobbly knees, a fluttering heart, unable to breathe. 

When they break the kiss, Clarke finds herself clinging to the fabric of Lexa's shirt. Lexa presses her lips against Clarke's forehead once, gently, and Clarke fears it's another goodbye. 

“I’m gonna fix this,” Lexa murmurs. “I swear I'm gonna fix this, even if it's the last thing I do.” 

Then Lexa walks away, leaving Clarke alone with her thoughts and regrets and wishes and the taste of summer kisses still lingering on her lips. 

Lexa is in love with her. 

Lexa has always been in love with her. 

Lexa is in love with her, too.

 

°*°

 

Under the sun-bleached awning between mismatched chairs and coffee tables, Clarke takes a bite of her blueberry muffin and then a sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving the sketchbook in front of her. 

It has been four days since Lexa kissed her by the lake, and against all odds, Clarke has managed to break the vicious circle of sleepless nights. She wakes up, works hard on her many projects, and she goes to bed and sleeps a heavy, replenishing sleep. Lexa hasn't contacted her, and Clarke is relieved. They both know Clarke needs time to figure out where her head is at. 

Clarke is a doer, not a thinker. It means that Clarke works out the mess in her head by working. It means that she dives into projects and works too hard until she collapses and wakes up the next morning realizing that she had the answer all along.

This morning Clarke woke up missing Lexa, and instead of wanting to yell at her, Clarke _wanted_ Lexa. Although Lexa has never been inside Clarke's apartment, Clarke could vividly picture her lying next to her, entangled in sheets and smelling like summer. 

“Refill?” 

“Thank you.”

Niylah places a second cup in front of Clarke and then takes a seat next to her. 

“New project?” Niylah asks. 

“Just a doodle.”

Niylah chuckles, and Clarke looks at her and smiles. 

“Can I see?” 

“It's not done yet,” Clarke says, pushing the sketchbook towards Niylah. 

Clarke tightens her grip around her pencil as she watches Niylah study her sketch. It's still a rough draft of that image that won't leave Clarke's mind: Lexa lying on her stomach, sheets around her waist and that damn tattoo on her back. Realizing too late what that implies, Clarke bites her lip, nervous about how Niylah will respond to it. 

“Even your doodles are magnificent,” Niylah says, engrossed in the details. “Interesting tattoo.”

“It’s the drawing I gave her the day she left.” Clarke lifts the cup to her lips taking a little extra time taking a sip. Clarke told Niylah about Lexa once. Not all of it, but enough for Niylah to understand that Lexa broke her heart.

“Clarke,” Niylah breathes. It’s not pity, it’s… Niylah understands Clarke’s pain. She always did. “Did you tell her?”

Clarke shakes her head. “It's complicated.”

Niylah returns the sketchbook and twists her torso to better look at Clarke. “How?”

For a moment Clarke watches strangers walk by on the sidewalk, deliberately ignoring to think of an answer. Clarke is tired of _she broke my heart_. She knows that while it’s still true, it's also an excuse. 

“You're afraid,” Niylah states, and Clarke feels the truth of it settle in her bones. 

“I don’t want to be.” Clarke’s eyes fall to the sketchbook, and her heart beats painfully under her ribcage that seems too small all of a sudden. “It should be easy, shouldn’t it? I mean, she told me she’s in love with me… And… It should be easy. I can’t even lose.” 

“This is why I only live for today, Clarke,” Niylah says, and Clarke looks at her, ready to dive into the wisdom that is Niylah’s life philosophy. “I don’t like the one I used to be, and I have absolutely no idea what will happen tomorrow, but I have today – a damn fine day, if you ask me – and I refuse to let anyone, least of all _myself_ , take that away from me.” 

Niylah’s past is a tragic story. That’s all Clarke knows. Niylah doesn’t ever talk about it, and Clarke never asks. Their relationship has always been defined by a mutual agreement of living in the moment, all strings cut loose – the past didn’t matter, and the future was never an issue.

“I’m stuck in the past,” Clarke says, feeling much like a lightbulb going off somewhere inside her mind. 

“You can stay there, or you can go here,” Niylah says, tapping a finger against the sketchbook. “Either way, there’s no inbetween.”

Clarke sighs. Nods. She stares at the sketchbook for a while and then looks at Niylah.

“I feel like I’ve used you,” Clarke says. “All this time… escaping from… I don’t know...”

“I’m a consenting adult, Clarke. We had fun. If I ever felt used, I’d have said no, okay? Don’t worry about me. Fix _you_.” Niylah taps the sketchbook once more and rises from her seat.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers, and Niylah smiles. 

“Lexa is a gorgeous woman, Clarke, don’t let her get away.”

 

°*°

 

It’s Sunday. It’s a brunch at the Griffin’s household Sunday, and Clarke lets herself inside without ringing the doorbell.

“Look who it is, Abby! Our long lost daughter has finally come home!”

“Dad,” Clarke sighs, shaking her head at the tall man standing in the middle of his kitchen waving a spatula at her. 

“Oh, Jake,” her mother sighs, sharing a knowing smile with Clarke. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m good,” Clarke says, smiling because it's true and it feels… nice. “Uhm, busy, but good. Need help?” 

“Take these outside?”

“Of course, mom.”

Clarke grabs the pile of plates and cutlery and walks through the house and out onto the terrace. As she places it on the table, something catches Clarke's eye. 

A beach ball. 

An inflated beach ball lying alone in the grass proudly showing off its faded colors and gray gaffa tape along every seam. Clarke goes to pick it up, and she finds it impossible to hold back a smile as she spins it between index fingers. 

Lexa fixed her beach ball. 

With the ball tucked under an arm, Clarke slides out her phone and sends Lexa a text. Then she goes back to the table where her parents are now taking a seat.

“What?” Clarke says when she finds her dad grinning at her. 

“Oh, nothing,” he keeps grinning, “I just told your mom the other night that you'd know what that was about,” he points at the ball with a strip of bacon before taking a bite. “She wanted to throw it out.”

“What?” Clarke gasps, eliciting a rumbling laughter from her dad. 

“I told you, Abby, it's Clarke and Lexa's ball.”

“Alright, alright,” her mother says, “you win.” 

Clarke watches her mom and dad share a knowing smile, and Clarke feels the need to tell them that whatever they think they know, they don't know anything at all, but a buzz from her phone interrupts her. Lexa's reply makes her smile, forgetting everything about brunch and beach balls and knowing parents.

_**Clarke:** _  
_I’m ready to talk. Are you home tonight?_

_**Lexa:** _  
_I'm home all day. Bring pizza and you have yourself a deal._

 

°*°

 

_Be cool,_ Clarke chants under her breath, because she doesn't feel cool at all, and what she's about to do requires a certain level of coolness. One hand holds a pizza box, the other stretches and shakes before ringing Lexa's doorbell. 

For five seconds Clarke stares at Lexa's door fully convinced that she's the epitome of cool. 

Five seconds. 

Then Lexa's door swings open, and Clarke no longer remembers what cool is. Lexa looks at her with careful eyes and that soft half-smile that Clarke loves. There's golden evening sun catching loose strands of chestnut hair that has fallen out of a ponytail, and Clarke is definitely not cool at all if her racing heart is anything to go by. 

“Hey, Clarke,” Lexa says, leaning against the door. 

“Uhm, pizza,” Clarke says pushing the pizza box forward. 

Lexa chuckles as she takes it. She pushes the door all the way open gesturing for Clarke to come inside. 

There are a million things Clarke wants to say, and it builds in her lungs and crawls up her throat, but she doesn't trust herself to speak much sense right now, so instead she bites down on her lower lip, taking a moment to study Lexa's apartment, a moment to compose herself. 

“So…” Lexa says. 

“So,” Clarke repeats looking at Lexa who has taken a stand, back resting against the kitchen island on which she has placed the pizza. 

When Clarke has stared at Lexa for too long without speaking, Lexa moves to get two plates which she places on the island. She opens the lid of the pizza box, and Clarke can tell she's nervous by the way she lingers with her back to Clarke. 

“You fixed my beach ball,” Clarke says, because it's the only truth that doesn't make Clarke an insecure mess. 

Lexa nods as she places a slice of pizza on both plates. “It still holds the air?” She says, her voice holding a slight tremor which Clarke knows means she's terrified too. 

“Lexa.”

“Yes?”

Clarke watches Lexa place her hands on the island, her shoulders rising with a long, controlled breath. 

“I'm here because I want to be,” Clarke says, slowly walking up to Lexa. 

Lexa turns to face Clarke, and she does that thing with her lips moving without sound, and for the first time, Clarke thinks she understands how that feels. 

There's a dryness in Clarke's mouth that calls for urgent attention, so she clears her throat, and when it doesn't work, she swallows hard.

“I want,” Clarke says, placing trembling hands on Lexa's hips, “to be here.”

“Okay,” Lexa whispers, wide eyes looking at Clarke. 

“You fixed my beach ball.”

Lexa nods. 

“I'm not mad at you.”

Lexa smiles carefully.

“I…” Clarke’s eyes drop to the space between them where Clarke now leans against Lexa. She feels Lexa's hand gently press against her arm. She feels her own heart try to run away. “I'm scared,” she whispers. 

“Clarke,” Lexa murmurs, brushing Clarke's hair behind an ear. “I'm not leaving again.”

“I know,” Clarke says, her eyes lifting to Lexa's collarbones that peaks out from her tank top. “I know,” she repeats, and she has to stop herself from not saying it again. 

“Are… you?” Lexa says, her voice fragile and so unlike the confident Lexa Clarke knows. “Leaving again,” she adds when Clarke looks at with confusion. 

“No,” Clarke says, smiling. “That's what I came to tell you.”

Running flat palms up Lexa's ribs, and behind her back, Clarke leans in closer, and Lexa's fingers run through her hair before finding rest curled around Clarke's neck. 

“I haven't done this before,” Clarke says, feeling Lexa's breath against her lips. 

“Done what?” Lexa searches Clarke's eyes, and the tenderness takes Clarke's breath away. 

“Stayed.”

Lexa leans in, then, to meet Clarke's lips. It's a gentle press, brief. “I’m not letting you go,” she murmurs. “Not this time.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Their next kiss is clashing of smiles and airy chuckles, and when Lexa's arms tighten around Clarke, Clarke knows that she wants to stay and Lexa will have to chase her away for that to ever change. 

“I want to do this right,” Clarke says, breaking the kiss. 

Lexa pouts, and it makes Clarke smile. 

“Let me take you on a date,” Clarke says. 

“Okay,” Lexa nods, her eyes darting between Clarke's eyes and lips. 

“Okay,” Clarke grins, pulling Lexa into another kiss, this time one that pulls at their clothes and pushes Clarke into Lexa's bed. 

Pizza stands forgotten on the kitchen island until darkness has chased the sun away, until Clarke tiptoes on bare feet to get it. 

As she returns to the bedroom, one plate topped with pizza, Lexa looks at her, eyes roaming down Clarke's naked, moonlit body. 

“I think you should stay more often,” Lexa says, shifting to a sitting position, sheets doing a terrible job covering up her body. 

“I think I'd like that,” Clarke says, handing Lexa the plate. 

Shy smiles are shared over a slice of pizza, and Clarke kind of likes this version of Lexa. This confident lawyer woman sitting in her bed, naked, munching on pizza after sex. It's Clarke's Lexa and a new exciting Lexa all wrapped up in one, and Clarke is grateful that she gets to experience her. 

 

When Lexa takes the plate and places it on the bedside table, Clarke catches the tattoo on her back. 

“When did you get this?” Clarke scooches closer, places a kiss on Lexa's shoulder as she brushes Lexa's hair away, flips it over Lexa’s other shoulder. With a curious fingertip she maps the contours of the falcon. Even in the moonlight, it stands crystal clear against Lexa's bare skin. 

“When we stopped talking,” Lexa says, frozen under Clarke's touch. 

Clarke shifts again to get behind Lexa, to better see. She reaches over to turn on the bed lamp and then goes to study it like only an artist would. “It's beautiful,” Clarke murmurs.

“You're biased,” Lexa chuckles.

Clarke hums a kiss into the spot between Lexa's shoulder blades. “You kept the turtle.”

“Of course. You're you and I am me, and time doesn't matter when we hang out,” Lexa says, smiling at Clarke over her shoulder. 

Clarke snorts. “I said that?”

“You did.”

“I'd like to think that time hanging out with you is the time that really matters,” Clarke says thoughtfully. She runs fingertips down Lexa's spine leaving muscles subtly twitching in their wake. 

“That's what the tattoo means to me.” Lexa shifts to face Clarke fully.

Clarke pulls her closer for a kiss, because it's the only truth that really matters. 

Lexa steals one last kiss before turning off the bed lamp. They soon find themselves curled up between sheets, and Clarke wishes she hadn't spent all this time fighting it. 

“Clarke?”

“Mhm?”

“You're still here when I wake up, right?”

“I promise.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”


	6. TURTLE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! 
> 
> I know it's not Wednesday, but the chapter is done, drafted, edited, and flawed as it should be... so why wait :)
> 
> Before I let you read it, let me once again remind you that Lexa's POV is continuing the story (not retelling Clarke's chapters). It's an additional chapter to the original prompt, so yeah, don't yell at me if it doesn't fit the description, alright? No, you know what? Come yell at me, I need the love <3
> 
> So, I still have no clue who prompted me, but if that person is reading this, know that I'm grateful! I've been scared to write teenage clexa, and this fic may have inspired me to take on a new teenage clexa fic idea in the future. I love the raw nativity of innocence :)
> 
> I must stop rambling.
> 
> Here's Lexa's POV. I truly hope you enjoy it. Swing by and leave me a comment, I'd love to personally thank you for giving this little thing a chance <3
> 
> ~anonbeme

# TURTLE.

 

 

It has been a while since Lexa woke up like this, fingertips drawing falcon wings on her back, goosebumps dancing in their wake. It has been a long time. Too long. Or, maybe just the right amount of time. The truth is, she'd have waited forever for this moment. 

All these years, the few women that did end up in Lexa's bed, none of them were good enough, none of them felt just right. None of them had fingers that studied the falcon with the reverence it deserves. None of them _could_ , because they didn't know the story. They asked about it, they all did, but Lexa kept it close to her heart.

It didn't belong to them: not the story, not her heart. 

All these years struggling against someone Lexa was expected to become, but never felt connected to, are scars to Lexa's soul, and they seem of minimal importance as the only fingertips worthy of the falcon caresses Lexa awake. 

Lips press against Lexa's spine, and she feels the first behemoth of a rock lifted off her shoulders. Fingers slide through her hair, brushing it to the side, and another kiss is pressed into her neck. 

Lexa hums, eliciting a low chuckle from Clarke. 

“Lex,” Clarke murmurs, her nose pressing against the shell of Lexa's ear. 

Clarke has never called her Lex before, but there's an endearment to it, something sacred that makes Lexa melt, and she decides she’s already quite fond of it. 

“Mh,” Lexa hums, still covered in a veil of delicate sleepiness and a morning sun barely awoken. 

“Wake up.”

“Nh-nh,” Lexa mumbles resistance into her pillow. 

“Lex,” Clarke husks, her voice as playful as the fingers trailing down her spine. 

Lexa grins into her pillow. 

“I thought you were a morning person. Rise and shine and all that.”

“My alarm hasn't–” 

As Lexa's alarm clock blares from its spot on the bedside table, Lexa groans and Clarke chuckles again. A drowsy hand fumbles to turn it off, and when it finally succeeds, Lexa rolls over onto her back, meeting Clarke's eyes for the first time this morning. 

“Hey,” Clarke smiles, propped onto one elbow. 

“Hey.” 

Blue is a cold color, so they say, but Lexa never found a greater warmth than the one dancing in Clarke's eyes. Even when she broke Clarke's heart and Clarke hated her, Lexa still saw the fire within them. That's how she knew Clarke was going to be okay. That's how she survived her own shattered heart. 

Soft fingers lace with her own, and she watches Clarke lift her hand to press a kiss against her knuckles. 

“You stayed,” Lexa says, still not quite believing it's real. 

There's a flash of something in Clarke's eyes, a bit of panic, and Lexa worries it was the wrong thing to say. For a second, she can't help but worry that falling into bed again, this soon, was the wrong move. Their friendship is already fragile under the weight of their history. 

But then Clarke looks at her, lifting her eyes from their entangled fingers to meet her gaze, and she says, “I wish we could stay here all day.”

The morning sun is peeking through the blinds, bathing Clarke in a soft glow of early orange, and Lexa lifts her free hand to brush Clarke's hair behind one ear. She tugs gently at Clarke's neck, meeting her lips halfway in a goodmorning kiss. 

“I can push it another half hour,” Lexa says, dwelling in the way Clarke's smile grows wide. “But no more than that.”

“I'll take it.”

Playful fingertips begin their dance along Lexa's skin again. By the way Lexa's heartbeat picks up speed, she knows coming home was the only right thing to do. Taking an extra half hour in bed was never an option in Polis. In fact, it was expected of her to put in early hours – _extra_ hours without pay. But Lexa had missed when time stood still allowing her to breathe in the moment, and it had made her miss Clarke, for some reason. She feared their friendship was ruined forever, she would've accepted if Clarke never wanted to talk to her again. She would've deserved it. 

“Yeah?” Lexa says, afraid to take this moment for granted. 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

There's a disproportion to their morning with too much time spent in bed because Clarke is beautiful and Lexa can't say no to her, and not enough time for breakfast. But there's a plate of pizza leftovers still on the bedside table, and there's really no such thing as too much time spent with Clarke in her bed. Time is precious, and Lexa has a lot of time to make up for. 

The shower is hurried, and Clarke's laughter is bright as she tugs the collar of Lexa's shirt up freeing it from a crinkled destiny in the near future. 

They part at the crossroads that lead Lexa to her office, and Clarke to her apartment, with promises of calling later and a quick kiss that steals another few minutes Lexa doesn't have. 

It's a sunny day. 

Lexa's heart is beaming. 

 

°*°

 

It's less than twenty-four hours later when Lexa finds herself being awoken by curious fingertips and gentle kisses again. 

Monday had started out like a sunny, beaming day, but had been overshadowed by grey clouds as Lexa went to visit her parents. Not five minutes through dinner, and her mom had made another comment about Lexa not taking her potential serious, and how it made no sense she'd turn down the opportunities Polis gave her. Lexa had felt nineteen again, suddenly feeling an urge to run off to escape reality with her best friend next door. 

Lexa had walked home, feeling the weight of her pout, feeling sadness settle on her shoulders, so she called Clarke thinking her voice could fix it. 

It did fix it. 

Somewhat. 

Not entirely. 

Obviously. 

Clarke had asked how she was feeling, and Lexa is a terrible liar, or rather, she's terrible talking about the things that weigh her down, and of course, Clarke knew that, and of course Clarke had insisted on coming over. 

They were supposed to do this right, go on a date, take things slow, but when Lexa had mumbled those words against Clarke's lips, Clarke had chuckled and Lexa couldn't say no to that. 

“Wake up,” Clarke whispers against Lexa's shoulder. 

Lexa decides that one of these days she'll be the one waking Clarke up like this. She still doesn't know how those warm blue eyes look like when they flutter open, still dazed from sleep, and her gut feeling tells her she's missing out on one of life's grandest secrets. 

Rolling over, lazily wrapping an arm around Clarke's waist to pull her closer, Lexa sighs. 

Clarke breathes out a chuckle, and Lexa wishes she could listen to it all day. Fingers dance along her spine again, and reality is blissfully far away. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Clarke asks. 

Right. Lexa forgot she was in a bad mood. She sighs again, this time heavy and tired. “No,” she mumbles. 

Clarke kisses an _okay_ into Lexa's hair, tearing down her walls. 

“I had dinner with mom and dad yesterday,” Lexa says, appreciating how Clarke’s fingers continue their waltz, letting silence envelop them until Lexa is ready to continue. “Mom disagrees with my choices.”

“What choices?” Clarke's voice wraps Lexa with comforting warmth. 

“Leaving Polis.”

“It's none of her business.”

Lexa pulls Clarke closer. She wants to tell her that it's not that easy. That yes, she admires Clarke's ability to not let her mother's disapproval affect her life, in fact, Lexa is _envious_. Lexa worked hard to make her mother proud of her. And she was, for a while, but it didn't make Lexa happy. 

“She wants more from me.”

“Of course she does,” Clarke scoffs. “Lexa, come on, were you happy in Polis?”

“No.”

“Are you happy here?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, there you have it.”

Lexa shifts out of Clarke's grasp, not because she's upset, but because she needs to see those blue eyes. “It's that easy?”

“It's that easy.”

The world becomes distant for a moment. Lexa imagines gathering enough courage to tell her mother it's none of her business. It both scares and exhilarates her. 

Clarke kisses Lexa's lower lip. “No pouting if you're happy,” she murmurs. 

And yeah, it's _that_ easy. A part of Lexa will always strive to make her mother proud, but more so than anything, Lexa wants to stay here. It's her home, and not just because Clarke is here. Clarke is a bonus; the best bonus there is. 

“I like when you're smiling,” Clarke says, and Lexa feels the corners of her lips curl upwards. 

“I'm not going back. To Polis. Just… If you worry. I’m where I want to be,” Lexa says. 

The way Clarke averts her eyes tells Lexa that Clarke does in fact worry about it. Lexa is not done fixing the wrongs she made eight years ago, she knows, but she won't give up. Clarke is Lexa's happiness, and she'll do everything she can to make sure she makes Clarke happy too. 

“Clarke.” Lexa runs fingers through Clarke's hair, brushing it behind her ear. Her fingertips linger by the curve of Clarke's neck.

Clarke nods, then. “I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

°*°

 

Their first real date is postponed because Clarke receives a last minute job offer she can't say no to. There's an end wall of a four-storey building downtown in need of decoration, and Clarke has been asked to be one of four local artists to combine their talents for the job. It requires a lot of extra hours leaving barely any free time, but Lexa had assured her that it was more than fine and perfectly understandable, and anyways, they could use their first date to celebrate a job well done. Clarke had smiled then, sealing the deal with a soft kiss. 

It has been three days since they saw each other, and while three days might not be much, it's still an unreasonably lot after spending two nights in a row together. So when Clarke texted Lexa this morning asking if she could meet up for coffee, Lexa had immediately accepted. 

Lexa is early. She's always a _little_ early, but today it's a lot, because she wanted to make sure she didn’t miss out on precious Clarke time. Clarke's favorite table is by some miracle available, so Lexa takes a seat allowing her mind to drift off while waiting. 

It drifts off to nothing.

It drifts off to everything. Particularly to Clarke, how lucky Lexa feels to have her back in her life, and how Lexa still can't believe she isn't dreaming. 

There's a thing at the back of her mind she can't shake, though. This nagging feeling that they’re not on the same page. That Lexa is madly in love with Clarke while Clarke is just having fun. That Clarke _says_ she wants this, to go on a date, to _stay_... It’s what Lexa wants to hear, and she’s afraid to put more meaning into those words than she’s supposed to. She’s afraid Clarke _wants_ to forgive her, but won’t ever be able to.

A soft hand finds rest on Lexa’s thigh, startling her wandering mind back to reality. She looks up to find warm, blue eyes look at her, amused and curious. 

“I said, hey,” Clarke’s smile curls wider, and lexa is not mistaken; Clarke is definitely teasing her.

“Oh, hey. Have you been sitting there long?” Lexa asks, blinking the confusion out of her eyes.

“No, I just sat down. You okay?”

There are paint stains in Clarke’s hair, on her grey tank top, on her cheeks. Blues and yellows and greens and purples and colors Lexa doesn’t know the names of. Clarke is vibrant and alive, and Lexa is still distracted, but no longer by the mess in her mind. “I am now,” she says.

Clarke leans in, then, softness on her lips, tenderness in her eyes, squeezing Lexa’s thigh before their lips meet. “I’m happy you could make it,” she murmurs.

“Me too,” Lexa smiles.

Clarke leans back, turning her happy smile towards the sun for a moment. She sighs, a breath of contentment that settles in Lexa’s heart. Clarke’s smile widens, giving Lexa a sideways glance. “What?” She says.

“What?” Lexa is confused.

“You’re staring.”

A heat that’s not caused by the summer settles on Lexa’s cheeks, eliciting a not at all subtle smirk from Clarke. Yeah, okay, Lexa is staring. It’s not on purpose. It’s Clarke and all the positive vibe she emits. Lexa has always been drawn to it. It quells the chronic melancholy that lives in her bones. It always has. 

“Paint stains suit you,” Lexa says, as if it explains why she’s flustered. “I always thought if souls had a color, yours would be a full palette.”

Clarke blushes, her lips timid as they part, but whatever she's about to say is interrupted by Niylah walking up to their table. 

“What can I get you today? The usual?”

“The usual sounds like a plan,” Clarke says.

There’s a familiarity in the way Clarke smiles at Niylah that plants _something_ in Lexa’s mind, something bad. Jealousy, probably. It makes her feel sick the way it did eight years ago when she saw Clarke kissing Finn at the lake party. 

“Lexa?” Clarke calls. 

“Mh?”

“The usual?”

“Oh, yeah, yes, please. Thank you, Niylah.” Lexa gives her one of those polite smiles that always works with clients and business partners, even though she knows Clarke will see right through it.

“Alright,” Niylah nods, “I’ll bring it out for you.” She smiles at Lexa, then at Clarke, before walking back inside.

“What’s going on?” Clarke asks, her voice carried by concern, perhaps even a scintilla of accusation. 

Of course Lexa knows her feelings aren’t justified, so she shakes her head. It’s nothing. Barely anything. Well, no, it’s not, it’s massive, but it’s Lexa’s problem, Lexa’s insecurity, Lexa’s guilt, Lexa’s love. Lexa’s vulnerability.

“Okay,” Clarke says.

The patience Clarke keeps for Lexa’s silent moments must be endless and overflowing. Lexa doesn’t think she deserves it. She bites the inside of her lip, contemplating how to fix this. She wants to not say anything, not to make a fool out of herself, but she needs to know. For some reason, she needs to know.

“Did you and Niylah…” No, she can’t finish the sentence.

“Yes,” Clarke says, her matter-of-factness startling Lexa who can’t do anything but stare at her, wide-eyed. “You and I, we never lied to each other, and I don’t want to start lying to you now. Yes, me and Niylah were a thing, only sex, no feelings, no strings. And I don’t want it to be an issue between us, because it isn’t a thing anymore.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Thank you for being honest,” Lexa says. 

“Of course. I…” Clarke pauses, finding Lexa’s hand, entwining their fingers. She brings Lexa’s hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss into the back of Lexa’s hand, mischief slowly unfolding in her eyes. “You’re a falcon and I’m a turtle.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Lexa says, remembering full well the time they stood in Clarke’s backyard and Clarke said the same thing to her, looking as brokenhearted as Lexa felt. 

“It means you’re you and I am me, and while the four years between us isn’t an issue, we still have eight years to catch up on. Anything you want to ask me, I’ll answer truthfully.”

“The same,” Lexa says, feeling awkward and not at all the eloquent communicator the lawyer in her is schooled to be. 

“The same,” Clarke smiles. “See, this is why we need that date.”

“This non-date isn't too shabby, though,” Lexa says, finally feeling her confidence come back. 

A smile dances on Clarke's lips, and Lexa wants to kiss it, already knowing what it tastes like, already addicted to it. 

So she does. 

 

°*°

 

Days, nights, mornings, and evenings occur. They exist in the wake of turbulence, clinging to a wisp of hope. It should elicit uncertainty, but all it does is fill Lexa to the brim with careful euphoria. It lives in muscle and sinew like a persistent ache with the sole purpose of reminding her that she's alive. It's at night she feels it the most, when darkness wraps her with the lonesomeness of an empty bed and dreams of being entangled with the love of her life between soft sheets and moonlight.

Lexa misses Clarke, but it’s the kind of missing that’s colored by brightness and joy, and so it doesn’t matter that it’s really been too many days and too many nights. Is it ideal? No. Not all all. Lexa has had a taste of what it means to belong to Clarke, and there's nothing else she rather wants. But a couple more days is nothing compared to the eight years she spent without Clarke in her life. Waiting a little longer for that date so they can do this right, well, Lexa considers herself a pro. Not to forget; lucky. Clarke did, after all, decide to give her a chance. 

It happens on a Wednesday, almost a week after their non-date. Clarke calls Lexa to tell her they’re wrapping up the project, and if Lexa doesn’t already have plans on Friday, Clarke has a surprise for her.

“What kind of surprise?” Lexa asks, never fond of surprises, but tremendously fond of Clarke.

_“I’m not telling you, Lex, it's a surprise.”_

Even through the phone, Clarke’s laughter sounds like a summer sunset, warm, golden, exuberant. 

“Clarke,” Lexa faux whines, the smile on her lips impossible to hide. 

_“Nope.”_

“You're no fun, Clarke.”

_“I’m plenty fun.”_

Lexa chuckles as she looks upon the approaching dusk, an almost translucent layer of clouds breaking the fading glow of sunset. It's getting late, but Lexa finds it hard to care with Clarke's voice in her ear. She'd stay up all night talking to her if she'd allow it. 

“Dress code?” Lexa asks, her heart light, her head blissfully dazed. “At least give me that.”

_“Mmh.”_

Lexa blushes into her phone when Clarke hums, a sultry tone leaving no room for any misconception. Getting to know Clarke as a sexual being exhilarates Lexa to the point that she can't help becoming a flustered mess. While Lexa is irrevocably fond of this version of Clarke, she still hasn't quite found her footing on this new terrain yet.

“Clarke,” Lexa sighs, part timid, part scolding. 

“Flat shoes,” Clarke chuckles, “the rest is entirely up to you.”

“Flat shoes?” 

“Flat shoes,” Clarke repeats, as if those two words held the key to unlock the meaning of life.

“Alright,” Lexa gives in, knowing Clarke will stubbornly stand her ground and not let anything slip about the surprise. “Flat shoes it is, then.”

The air is chilly and stars are spattered like glitter across the night sky when Clarke eventually demands that Lexa goes to bed. Lexa faux whines again, dwelling in the way Clarke's airy chuckle is warm against the night breeze. 

_“Friday.”_

A longing sigh escapes Lexa's lips. “Friday,” she says, repeating Clarke's promise. 

 

°*°

 

One hand on her hip, the other scratching at the back of her neck, Lexa stares into the depths of her wardrobe, impatient and frustrated. Fancy shirts, casual shirts, t-shirts, sleeves, no sleeves, jeans, dress pants, a skirt or two… 

What does one wear on a first date with one's best friend? 

“Flat shoes,” Lexa scoffs, reaching for a pair of jeans. They're her favorite pair, low waist, loose fit. She adds a black tank top and a short-sleeved green shirt to hang open. If Clarke wants flat shoes, she's going to get full-on casual Lexa. Casual, that is, with a subtle layer of mascara and a bit of lip gloss. 

Keys, wallet and phone fit perfectly into her pockets, and the smile on her lips is a permanent installment, having already given up trying to act cool. She runs down the stairs despite telling herself to calm down, and she has to take a detour as to not show up too early. 

She's still too early. 

It's an odd meeting spot, the corner at the end of the of the street on which their childhood homes are. Lexa had voiced her sceptic mind, and she could literally see Clarke rolling her eyes as the voice on the phone said, _”trust me, Lexa.”_

Lexa does trust Clarke, but it doesn't change the fact that Lexa feels silly, waiting at the end of her childhood street, just… waiting… hands idly hung from back pockets, looking at every direction every five seconds contemplating what the hell she's doing there… other than waiting on Clarke. 

Approaching from the direction of her parents’ house, Clarke comes strolling all brightly radiant and causally smiling as her eyes fall on Lexa. 

“Is that a picnic basket?” Lexa asks, when Clarke is close enough to hear her. 

“No.”

Lexa narrows her eyes at Clarke. “Do you not know what a picnic basket is?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at Lexa, then says, “I know what a picnic basket is, Lexa. But it's part of the surprise, so ignore it for a little while longer.” 

“Fine,” Lexa says, as Clarke places the basket on the ground next to her. “I'll ignore the massive not a picnic basket that's obviously very heavy.”

Clarke winks at Lexa, ignoring her teasing comment – on purpose, Lexa is sure of it – and she walks up to Lexa, wrapping her arms around her waist. 

Soon Lexa finds herself melting, her heart picking up speed when Clarke kisses her on the cheek. 

“I've missed you,” Clarke murmurs, and Lexa's heart is beaming. 

“I've missed you too,” Lexa says, suddenly overwhelmed knowing that Clarke now understands the full message behind those words. 

“Come on,” Clarke says, picking up the basket. She entwines her free hand with Lexa's, softly pulling her down the sidewalk towards whatever she has planned for Lexa. 

They walk a familiar route, and Lexa _thinks_ she knows where they're going, but she keeps it to herself because Clarke is obviously enjoying being secretive, and who is Lexa to take that away from her. 

It's early evening, the sun already beginning its descend, and the breeze is gentle and just the right amount of chilly against Lexa’s skin. She listens to Clarke talking animatedly about the finished end wall project; she has photos to show on her phone, but promises Lexa she’ll show her in person soon. In return, Lexa tells Clarke that work is exciting, her new coworkers are nice people, and even though she can't talk about the nature of her cases – business law is mostly confidential matter – she enjoys talking to Clarke because Clarke’s excitement makes her feel proud, unlike her mother's disapproval. 

“We're here,” Clarke says, and Lexa smiles knowing she was right. 

“The lake.”

“Our lake.” Clarke bites her lip, looking at Lexa, then at the lake, then back at Lexa. Without saying anything else, she walks towards the stone they always sit on. She places the basket on it, opening the lid. Lexa follows a few steps after, quietly watching as Clarke pulls out a blanket – the one with the ugly floral patterns they used to create blanket forts with when they were kids – and places it on the ground, carefully removing any large rocks that are in the way. 

“Picnic by the lake?“ Lexa asks, because she feels silly just watching, and maybe she's still a little nervous. 

Clarke ignores her, secrets still dancing on her lips as she pulls out a bottle of champagne and two plastic cups. 

When Lexa sees the cups, she starts laughing. “I can't believe you still have those.”

“Dad kept them,” Clarke grins, handing Lexa both cups. “Now, sit.”

Lexa takes a seat on the blanket, holding up the cups for Clarke to pour the champagne. Her mind wanders to the afternoon when Clarke's father came home and placed a cup in front of them and said, “there, girls, now you have two, so no more arguing about who gets the Simba cup.”

“I made my mum cook lasagna for us,” Clarke says sheepishly, as she places the basket on the ground next to the blanket. 

“Your mom's lasagna?”

“Yes.” Clarke takes a seat next to Lexa and digs out plastic containers and plates and cutlery. “It's still warm.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says, not really knowing what to say. Just… It's a lot. It's Lexa's favorite dish in the world. 

When Clarke looks at her, Lexa is met with something that rarely happens. A nervous Clarke. “I just… I need to say something, okay?”

“Okay,” Lexa says, paralyzed by the activity in her mind, still awkwardly holding both champagne-filled cups.

“Okay,” Clarke says, taking a deep breath. She bites her lip, frowning. “Okay. The last many times we were both here, at least one of us was hurting, and I don't want to be reminded of that anymore, I want it to stay in the past, and I thought… maybe we could begin to create new, nice moments here… and maybe someday those moments will drown out the bad ones.”

“I'm sorry,” Lexa says, apologizing for all the pain she has caused Clarke throughout the years. 

“No, it's not your fault. I see that now. It was… I don't know… Bad timing?”

“Maybe,” Lexa says, her eyes falling to the cups in her hands. “I hate that I hurt you.”

The guilt is something Lexa can't shake. A part of her insist on holding on to it because she deserves the pain it brings. For all the times Lexa hurt Clarke, Lexa deserves to never forget. 

Clarke takes the cups from her, placing them somewhere. Then she shifts closer, a hand cupping Lexa's cheek to force her to meet her eyes. 

“Let it go, Lexa. Please? Help me move forward. I…” Clarke pauses, then frowns again. “I know I have to work on this too. I haven't dated anyone since I was nineteen, and it's scary, maybe even more so because it's you. I don't want to screw it up.”

“We’re dating?” Lexa says, forgetting everything about guilt. 

“I… Yeah… I mean, if–”

Lexa cuts her off with a kiss. Because Lexa doesn't know how to explain how important it is to her to hear Clarke say that. In Lexa's mind, it translates into Clarke wanting to commit to her. It means it's definitely more than just having a good time. It won't erase the past, it _shouldn't_ erase the past, but it's good enough. It's more than Lexa dared hope for. 

Lexa leans into the kiss, feeling Clarke's fingers dig into her hair. 

“Lex,” Clarke says, it's swallowed by a kiss. Only when Clarke chuckles, does Lexa break the kiss. 

Amused eyes watch her, and Lexa doesn't know what to do. Her heart is expanding in record time. She thought it wasn't possible, but she keeps falling for Clarke, harder and harder, every time they spend time together. 

Clarke leans in, brushing the softest kiss against Lexa's lips, and Lexa feels the three little words form on her tongue. She wants to scream it at the top of her lungs for everyone to hear. She wants to whisper it so only Clarke knows. She wants to murmur it against naked skin. She wants to… She wants Clarke to know, but it's too soon. Just the thought of scaring Clarke away before they even begin, it feels poisonous in her lungs. 

“Lex?”

Lexa blinks, and Clarke's face slides back into focus, worry written in her eyes. Thumbs caress her cheeks, and only then does Lexa realize she's crying. 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

Lexa squeezes her eyes tight for two seconds.

Yes. 

No. 

Clarke's thumbs keep brushing tears away. 

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

“Remember the lake party before I left?” Lexa says, her voice barely there, trembling. 

“What about it?” Clarke sounds like bad memories resurfaced in her mind too. 

“I saw you kissing Finn and I wanted to throw up. That was the first time I realized I had feelings for you.” It's not a love declaration, not quite, but it's the beginning, at least. 

Clarke frowns, then, and Lexa wishes she could take it back. She doesn't even know why she said it, except the words were suffocating her and she couldn't fight it anymore. 

“I only let him because you kissed that girl,” Clarke says, letting her hands drop to her lap. 

“Who– Luna?” Lexa is panicking. Luna was a friend who'd gotten a whole lot to drink that night. It had taken Lexa by surprise when she kissed her, something a very ashamed Luna had apologized for a million times the second she'd sobered up. Just the thought of something harmless like that hurt Clarke is… It makes Lexa sick to think about. “Clarke, I'm sorry… I… She… No. She was drunk and she kissed me, and I didn't… Clarke,” Lexa begs for Clarke to understand what she can't explain. 

“You weren't dating?”

“No.”

Clarke nods, then shakes her head, a sad chuckle escaping her lips. “I dated Finn. Last year of school. He made me forget I was sad, and then he cheated on me.”

“He… What?” Anger. 

“Yeah.” Clarke sighs, averting her eyes, staring at the lake. 

“I thought I did the right thing,” Lexa says, crestfallen. “I thought… I'm still hurting you, aren't I?”

“No,” Clarke says, then looks back at Lexa. “No. The memories are. Not you.”

“Anything I can do?” Lexa holds her breath. 

Clarke is thinking, nodding distractedly. She takes the cups of champagne and hands Lexa one. “Let it stay in the past.”

Lexa takes the cup, looking into it as if the bubbly liquid could foresee the future. Perhaps this is not about Clarke forgiving Lexa. Perhaps it's about Lexa forgiving herself. “Move forward,” she says, looking at Clarke. 

“Move forward.”

Clarke holds up her cup and Lexa clinks her own against it. The smile that forms on Clarke's lips is small, hopeful, and Lexa makes a promise to do everything in her power to turn it bright and radiant again. 

“I understand why we're here,” Lexa says. “Let's overwrite the past with champagne and your mom's lasagna.”

Clarke's smile grows. A little bit. It's beautiful.

“And kisses?” Lexa continues, wanting to make sure they're still on good terms, dating-wise. 

Lexa receives Clarke's answer in a kiss, a gentle peck on the lips. “I want this,” Clarke says. “I want to move forward with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They both lift the cup to their lips and takes their first celebratory sip. There's relief in Lexa's heart, but her mind insists on dragging her through the mud one last time. There's one more thing Lexa needs to share. It's a selfish thing. If Lexa needs to forgive herself, she needs to be open about the things she blames herself for. All of them. The big one. 

She watches Clarke put down her cup only to pick up the container with salad. As she wrestles it open, Lexa decides there's no good time for this, so it might as well be now. 

“You stopped calling me, and it messed with my head. I was in a bad mood all the time, and one day Costia accused me of being in love with you.” Lexa watches Clarke carefully, the way she freezes for a moment before adding tongs to the salad. “I denied it. The thought of her leaving me because I didn't love her enough was, because I loved someone else more… She didn't deserve that. I loved her with all I had.”

Clarke has stopped moving, her eyes are glued to the blanket beneath them. Lexa can't tell if she's making things worse, but she can't stop now. She clears her throat and continues. 

“I was hurting you because of Costia, and I was hurting her because of you. Neither of you deserved that. And I didn't know what to do. So I buried myself in school and work, and I thought I was doing the right thing. I worked so hard to do the right thing. And every time I wanted to quit, I looked at your drawing of the turtle and the falcon. It hung over my desk, and it was the one thing that put a smile on my face, got me through the workload. If I couldn't have you, I could at least have the memories, so I got the tattoo. That way I would carry a piece of you everywhere I went.”

Tears are falling from Clarke's eyes now, and Lexa's heart feels like an open wound exposed to salt. 

“I wanted to call you, but I didn't know how to tell you I missed you without hurting you even more.”

“Lex,” Clarke whispers, and Lexa doesn't know what it means. The next thing, Clarke pushes a napkin into Lexa's hand, and Lexa realizes she's crying too. “I'm sorry. I never thought about this from your perspective.”

Lexa laughs, wet and sad, as she wipes the tears from her cheeks. “It was my decision, Clarke. Don't apologize. I just… I needed to say it out loud. I need it out to move forward.”

Clarke wipes her cheeks too, nodding. “Shit… Okay. I'm officially asking for a do-over of this date.”

“I’m sorry I ruined it.”

“It's not entirely ruined,” Clarke says. “We still have this.” She picks up the container with lasagna, and as the lid springs open, a whiff of Lexa's favorite dish fills the air. 

“Oh god, I missed your mom's lasagna,” Lexa says, dreamily, eliciting a bright laughter from Clarke. 

“Here,” Clarke says, handing Lexa a fork. “Dig in.”

A calmness settles around them as they start eating. Lexa takes a deep breath, and when Clarke meets her eyes they share a smile. For the first time since Lexa left for law school, she finally feels home. 

When their Simba cups are empty and their stomachs are full, Clarke clears the blanket from containers and prods Lexa to lie down with her. They lay there looking at the sunset sky, sharing stories of their eight years apart until the moon begins to rise and Clarke starts shaking. Lexa pulls Clarke tighter, wrapping the blanket around them both. 

“Clarke?” Lexa whispers, not wanting to disturb the peace. 

“Mhm?”

“I know this wasn't what you planned, but I'm glad I got to say those things. I didn't realize they were weighing me down.”

Clarke shifts so she can press a kiss against Lexa's jaw. “Me too.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

It soon becomes too cold, neither Lexa's body heat nor the blanket being enough to fight it, and Clarke trembles against Lexa. 

“Ready to go back?” Lexa says, running her hands up and down Clarke's back. 

“No.”

“You're freezing, Clarke.”

A pause. “No.”

“You're shaking.”

“It's because I like you.”

Lexa chuckles. “Clarke.”

“Lexa.”

“I can find better ways to warm you up.”

A pause. “Your place?”

“Sure,” Lexa says. Clarke's place is closer, but if Clarke wants to go back to her place, who is Lexa to say no to that. 

“Come on,” Clarke says, leaving a wet, lingering kiss on Lexa's neck before struggling her way out of the blanket with too much vigor for this lazy evening by the lake. Clarke reaches out to help a laughing Lexa up from the ground, she bundles up the blanket, stuffs everything back into the basket and hands it to Lexa. 

“So nonchalant of you to offer to carry it,” Clarke says, batting her eyelashes. 

Lexa sighs. Who is she to say no when Clarke looks at her like that. 

 

°*°

 

There’s something to be said about mornings waking up next to Clarke. They are filled with sleepy smiles and lazy kisses and morning snuggles. 

There’s something to be said about Clarke’s raspy morning voice, her warm, playful hands, and her reluctance to leave Lexa’s bed.

They are beautiful things. 

Possibly Lexa’s favorite things in the world.

On the morning after their first date by the lake, Lexa finally learned what Clarke looks like as those blue eyes flutter open to a new day. She was right; it _is_ one of life's grandest secrets, one she wants to keep forever to herself.

There's something to be said about that, too. Lexa considers herself lucky to have Clarke in her life. It feels good to wake up next to her. 

They have a routine. 

It started with their date that became regular dates, and then those dates became movie nights at Lexa’s place. They sometimes watch Disney movies, they sometimes eat pizza. Sometimes Lexa treats Clarke with homemade food and sunsets on the balcony. Mostly, they end up getting handsy under a blanket on Lexa’s couch, and even if they don’t, they always end up in Lexa’s bed. 

It’s not always sex.

Sometimes, they cuddle up watching the stars through lexa’s window, and they talk about the past growing stronger together, learning to carry their pain. They’re moving forward, and it feels good. 

Really, really good.

Still, Lexa can’t shake the nagging feeling that they’re not entirely on the same page, and it gets harder and harder every day to ignore it.

It happens on an otherwise gorgeous day.

Lexa wakes up to Clarke trailing kisses down her spine, the early Autumn sun coloring the walls of her bedroom a golden bright warmth. Lexa doesn’t want to get up and Clarke tells her she doesn’t have to, that she’ll come back as soon as she’s done with work.

“I could come over to your place,” Lexa says, already knowing it's the wrong thing to say even before Clarke freezes against her back. 

“It's a mess,” Clarke says, “next time?”

“Okay,” Lexa whispers, the air stuck in her throat. This isn't the first time Clarke has come up with a reason to not go to her place.

“I'm gonna take a shower.” Clarke presses a kiss against the falcon on Lexa's back before rolling off the bed. 

When the bathroom door clicks shut, Lexa releases the breath she has been holding. She buries her face in the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. 

Clarke obviously doesn't want to talk about it, and Lexa can't let it go right now, so she gets up and gets dressed for a jog. 

She needs to clear her mind. 

Before leaving the apartment, she leaves a note for Clarke on the kitchen counter.

_I'm out for a run._  
_Talk later._  
_L_

It's a shit move, but Clarke is leaving for work soon, so now is not the time to confront Clarke. She'll do it later. Or tomorrow.

Lexa presses herself harder, pushes against the wind, forces a pace that leaves her legs and lungs burning. Sweat trickles down her face, she tastes the salt on her lips. 

It clears her mind.

It breaks her heart. 

She can't keep doing this to herself. It's been three months. Lexa doesn't want to pressure Clarke into anything she isn't ready to do, but she needs to know if they're both doing this for the same reasons. 

It's not even about seeing Clarke's apartment. It's about Clarke putting up walls. She's holding back, and Lexa needs to know why. If it has anything to do with them, she needs to figure it out before she starts putting up her own walls. She lived there for the most of eight years, she refuses to go back to that place. 

Lexa returns to her apartment, drenched in sweat, and her muscles ache so bad that she almost gives up climbing the stairs. She unlocks the door, and although she knows she won't find Clarke inside, it still hurts finding the place empty. 

Lexa goes to grab a glass of water. She checks the counter, but Clarke didn't leave a note. It makes her stomach churn. She places the empty glass next to her own handwriting, and with a heavy sigh, she goes to take a shower. 

The water is burning against her skin, but not enough to kill her thoughts. She doesn't even know if Clarke will be coming over later. She implied it, but it wasn't definitive. Maybe it was definitive before Lexa left like coward. Maybe Clarke changed her mind then and decided to stay away. 

Maybe Lexa ruined everything. 

Lexa kills the hot water, gasping as the ice cold water penetrates her skin. It's painful, but it feels good right now. For the twenty drawn out seconds she counts out loud, she forgets her worries, and it feels good. It cleanses her. 

For now. 

The day drags on. Lexa spends most of it sulking on her couch contemplating whether or not to call Clarke and apologize. She's not even sure she's supposed to apologize. Maybe Clarke wants the space. Maybe Lexa needs the space. 

It's 8pm when Lexa receives a text message from Clarke.

_Come over?_

“Okay,” Lexa mumbles as she types the word. She hesitates for a second before pressing send, making sure she read Clarke's text correctly.

Lightheaded, Lexa gets up and spins on the spot twice not quite sure what to do with herself. Suddenly nervous, it feels a little like a first date. Giving herself a once-over, she decides she better switch her sweatpants for a pair of jeans. A quick trip to the bathroom, checking her hair is decent after a day on the couch, and then she’s out the door. 

She picks up a pizza on the way. 

Because she doesn’t want to show up empty-handed, and pizza always works when it comes to Clarke. 

As she reaches Clarke’s address, she looks up at the building before pressing the buzzer. A building has never been more intimidating. She shakes her head, trying to quell the voice at the back of her mind that says that Clarke asking her to come over is a bad sign. 

_“Yeah?”_

“It’s me.”

Clarke buzzes her in, and Lexa forces herself to walk up the stairs slowly while she prepares for whatever is to come. Clarke’s breathy chuckle is the first thing that reaches her. Lexa looks up to find Clarke leaning against her doorframe. 

“You brought pizza,” Clarke states, amused.

“It’s what we do.”

“Yeah,” Clarke grins, biting her lip. “Come in.” 

Lexa stands on the outside of the doorway watching Clarke disappear inside her apartment. It feels like an important moment, and Lexa finds herself lingering like an idiot with a pizza box in her hand outside an open door she was just invited to walk through. 

“Lex?” Clarke returns, confusion lifting her eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Lexa mumbles. She crosses the threshold, kicking off her shoes as Clarke closes the door behind her. “I’m… I just… You invited me over.”

Without a word, Clarke nods and takes Lexa’s hand. She gently guides her into the living room, stopping in the middle of it. “This is me,” she says, timid, insecure.

To make matters worse, Lexa still feels like an idiot, only now, an idiot with a pizza box in one hand and her gorgeous girlfriend in the other hand staring mouth agape at the sight before her. Clarke’s living room is bright and colorful. There’s a small couch against one wall, and a large abstract painting of strong orange colors above it. In the corner is an easel, and canvases are propped up against the wall next to it. Another corner is a small kitchen. It’s not a big place, but there’s room enough for what’s important: art.

It’s so Clarke.

The pizza box is taken from Lexa. She watches Clarke place it on the coffee table. She knows she’s staring, she can see it in the way Clarke is half blushing, half smirking. 

“Did I break you?” Clarke says.

“Yes.”

“Want me to fix you?”

“That would be nice.”

Clarke grins, but it morphs into a frown within seconds. 

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Clarke says, her fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. “I never brought anyone here, and… I guess I was afraid to give up that one thing that has always just been mine.”

“I’m sorry if I pressured you,” Lexa says, feeling guilty once again.

“You didn’t,” Clarke hurries to say, looking at Lexa with wide eyes. “You were gone this morning, and I knew you left because you were frustrated. I’ve been thinking about it all day, because I knew it was my fault. I wanted to make it up to you, and I realized that the one thing that scared me the most was losing you.”

“You won’t lose me, Clarke.” Lexa frowns. That’s the thing. Clarke can tell her to leave, but Lexa will always belong to Clarke.

“Yes I will. If I don’t let you in, I will lose you. Because you deserve better than me holding back, and I can’t keep hurting you.” 

Clarke inhales sharply, trembling. She takes a step forward, reaching for Lexa’s hands, entangling their fingers. Clarke lifts their hands pressing her lips against Lexa’s knuckles. “I can’t lose you,” she whispers. “Not again.”

Lexa wants to repeat herself. _You won’t lose me, Clarke._ But Clarke’s eyes are fleeting between Lexa’s, they fall to their joined hands, and Lexa knows she’s not done speaking.

“I can’t lose you,” Clarke repeats. “So I’m letting you in. All the way. Into my home. Into my heart. I…” 

Clarke squeezes her eyes tight, leaning her forehead against Lexa’s collarbone, and all Lexa is able to do is hold her breath while wrapping her arms around Clarke. Clarke’s next words are muffled by the fabric of Lexa’s shirt. 

“I didn’t get that.”

Clarke lifts her head, teary-eyed she meets Lexa’s gaze. “I love you,” Clarke whispers.

Lexa can’t help herself. Her lips curl into a smile, and when Clarke’s eyes grow wide, presumably expecting a vocal _something_ from Lexa, her smile grows wider. “Say it again.”

“Lex,” Clarke whines, hiding her face in Lexa’s shirt again.

“Clarke,” Lexa chuckles, excited and giddy. “Come on, look at me. You know I love you too. _Goddamnit_ , I love you, alright? I really, really, really love you.”

At that Clarke sighs. “Fine,” she mutters, forehead still pressed against Lexa’s collarbone.

“Fine.” Lexa grins, pressing a happy kiss into Clarke’s hair.

“I love you,” Clarke mumbles.

“I love you.” Lexa beams

“You’re obnoxious right now.”

“Kiss me and I’ll stop.”

When Clarke finally looks at Lexa, she scolds her with a raised eyebrow. It elicits a bright laughter from Lexa, and in return, Clarke grabs onto her neck, pulling her into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really, really appreciate it! <3
> 
> Any comments or thoughts you may have, gimme :) ... even prompts!  
> You can also find me on twitter (@anonbeme) and tumblr (@anonbemetoo)


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